


The Wolves in Winter

by Nikolai_Knight



Category: Interview With the Vampire (1994), Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Character Turned Into Vampire, Depression, Family Drama, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M, Personal Growth, Running Away, Self-Discovery, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27921259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikolai_Knight/pseuds/Nikolai_Knight
Summary: Lestat wanted only one thing more than to be free:He wanted to prove his worth.After his latest attempt to runaway, Gabrielle pays for her son to be tutored. The tutor is a local man who teaches Lestat the skills he needs to prove himself to his parents, such as reading and writing and even horsemanship, and soon Lestat starts to fall for the man that is offering him a chance at a new life . . . to become a better person. Little did he know that this man - Louis de Pointe du Lac - was a vampire, and one capable of changing his whole world.
Relationships: Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac, Nicolas de Lenfent/Lestat de Lioncourt
Comments: 36
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nina3491](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina3491/gifts).



‘Please, don’t do this . . .’

The cold air burned the back of his throat. He gasped and panted, while billowing steams of breath evaporated before his lips, and his tongue struggled to wet his dry lips, as he stumbled over incoherent words and sounds that barely escaped his throat. The racing of his heart was enough to break over all other sounds . . . the crunch of gravel, the rustle of fabric, the chirping birds . . . nothing existed but the pain in his arms and the adrenaline in his veins.

A cold sweat broke over him, as the castle finally loomed into view. The hands tightened about his upper arms, leaving visible bruises beneath his shirt, and – as he fell limp – they struggled and fought to carry what was now effectively the dead-weight of a sixteen-year old. Each step brought him closer and closer to the stone edifice. Each step brought his vision further and further out of focus. There were sparks of colour around his closing peripheral vision, while his lungs seemed to collapse under their own weight, until even to breathe was some effort.

The village was long behind him. He tried to crane his neck, but Augustin would ram callused fingers deep into his blond hair and force him to look forward. The cold stone stood before the sun, casting a long shadow along the path towards the main doors, and the sky was grey above turrets and towers, as Lestat pulled and jerked his arms and legs in rapid succession. He dug his feet into the gravel. He twisted his body and contorted his limbs. They held tight until the thin white fabric of his shirt tore, and trousers barely strung together struggled to keep his modesty.

There was blood on the soles of his bare-feet. Augustin held his meagre belongings in a cloth bag, one swung over his shoulder, and inside the few stolen relics and jewellery pieces clattered, along with the coins accumulated from a few days of shows and performances. Lestat fought in earnest, as the sweat soaked into his shirt and his long locks of hair fell loose. He cried out and clawed and scratched, as he clamoured to turn back, but their power far excelled his strength.

‘I – I still have time,’ choked Lestat. ‘I can go back and –’

Lestat chanced a look towards the castle. A hunched figure stood in the great doorway with his hands clenched to the head of a walking stick, one topped with an ornate silver topper that was tarnished by time and scratched deep by the years. The old man slowly crept into view, with deep lines about his face that betrayed his advancing age, and the grey about his temples – and streaked through his hair – spoke of one with a limited amount of life before them.

It was as if all strength was sapped from his spirit. Lestat fell limp and lifeless in the grasp of his brothers, as they dragged him unceremoniously towards the awaiting figure, and – without waiting for him to brace his weight – they tossed him . . . _threw him_ . . . so that he landed at the feet of the one above him. He landed at the feet of his father. Lestat winced as stones dug into his palms, while his splayed and twisted body struggled like a serpent to crawl into an upright position, and no support was offered by the old man. Instead, he simply looked down and spat:

‘Do you have anything to say in your defence?’

Lestat curled his lips. He knelt with parted legs, while he lifted his trembling hands. The skin was red and brown from dirt and blood, and his fingers seemed to curl and close of their own accord, as a terrible cold sensation washed over every inch of flesh. The vision once again grew distorted, but this time through tears that blurred the world around him, and – with broken laughter – he smiled to realise that it hid his father from sight, casting him with the strange distortions one would expect from a ghost or spectre. Lestat spat out with equal venom:

‘Maybe I wouldn’t have run away, if I had a half-decent father.’

A ringing slap struck at his cheek. It landed with such force that it knocked him from his knees, forcing him onto his side with a searing pain through his rips and upper arms, and – even as he rolled onto his back – laughter poured from his lips . . . it poured and poured, refusing to stop, even as Augustin stepped back and said through clenched teeth: ‘he is a madman’! Lestat laughed. He laughed until he cried, as tears streamed down his face, and he laughed even as his other brother kicked at him and screamed at him to stop. The laughter only died where their father said five simple words . . . five words that hit him worse than any physical blow:

‘Take him to his room . . .’

* * *

The bedroom was colder than memory served, unlike those few evenings spent around the camp-fire and in the warm embrace of female flesh, and a draught ran out through the rattling shutter, which howled whenever the wind struck at just the right angle. A fur rug lay across the floor, void of dust for the most part, but the stone tiles of the floor were covered in a fine layer that left visible footprints when he walked. Dirt collected at the edges of his clothes chest.

He lay still on the bed. The frame was from another era, carved with intricate letters and figures from stories that he could not recognise and languages that he could not understand, while the mattress itself was uncomfortable with straw poking out of the far corners. The wash-basin stood not far from the bed, where its cloudy waters swirled with the red of blood. He lay against the sheets, with one hand on the wet cloth that ran over bare flesh, and his black trousers lay loose about his hips with the strings barely holding together the fabric about his groin.

Gabrielle lingered in the doorway, where she leaned against the frame. The grey streaks through her hair almost bled perfectly into the blonde, while her blue eyes fixed on him with a slightly narrowed gaze, and – on each breath – her nostrils would flare and lips would purse. He cast a quick eye over her dress; the once bright fabric was stained by sunlight and time, so that it almost washed out her paling complexion, and the very edges of the hems were frayed too much to be saved by any steady hand and leftover thread. He rolled his eyes. He looked away.

He moved the cloth over his arms, wincing when he brushed a little too firm over the bruises, and stayed silent as she moved about his room, occasionally touching at a hung crucifix or a stray piece of wooden furniture. Gabrielle stopped before his desk. A poster for the troupe lay across its surface, painted by one of the male players, and written with something in French by their female lead. Gabrielle flipped it over to its blank back and said:

“Your father would be furious to find this.”

Lestat scoffed. He tossed the wet cloth into the basin. The bloodied water spilled out over the sides, where it trickled along the rusted iron, and the liquid sloshed in its bowl, while the fabric soaked up a great deal of what remained. He rolled over onto side, with the mattress thudding under his weight. The slim frame was fast becoming toned with muscles, with a good few meals doing him a world of good, and he somehow found enough strength to spit out:

“It’s a good job he’s blind, then.”

A low sigh escaped Gabrielle. The sound of her slippers echoed out about the bedroom, as her soft steps made their way through the barren bedroom, and soon the thin mattress dipped beneath her weight, as she sat on the very edge and smoothed out the sheets with her hands. He stared at the wall opposite him, while ignoring her presence, and counted the cracks in the plaster between the stones, even as she sighed again as if seeking for attention. Eventually, she asked:

“Why did you run away, my son?”

“Why not?”

“ _Lestat_. . .”

The tone of her voice was either desperation or frustration. A part of him thought it was both. He said nothing, even as she took the wet cloth with a trickling of water, and – wringing it out with her hand – brought it to his back to wash away the dirt that he failed to reach. Lestat hissed as the cloth touched upon the red cuts that ran down his flesh, each one parallel to the other, and his cheeks flushed so dark that he half-buried his face into the pillows to hide the crimson. He continued to lay in silence, while she washed at him as if he were still a child.

“You’re only sixteen,” said Gabrielle.

“Tell me, how old were you when you first gave birth?”

“I was not aware that was relevant.”

“You know what I saw when I saw that troupe?” Lestat scoffed. “I saw people who were _free_! I met an actress that could be a man one night and a woman the next, and a man that was in one scene the lord of a castle and suddenly a pauper in the next . . . they could be any age, any gender, any marital status . . . any nationality, any era . . . imagination was their only limitation!”

“And what was it you imagined a life with them to be?”

“I imagined waking up in her arms after a night of passionate love-making, and I imagined drinks with equals at the end of a hard-working day around a campfire. I imagined cheers and applause in one town, while being ran out of another to jeers and taunts . . . one day we might eat like kings from money earned, while another we might starve on a pittance, but always – _always_ – we would have each other and travel freely without restraint or shackles or chains.”

Lestat rolled onto his back. Gabrielle barely found time to pull back the wash-cloth, as his movement nearly trapped her hand beneath him, and yet – without complaint – she folded the cloth neatly and placed it onto the edge of the basin. He smiled absently. He raised a hand upward towards the crumbling plaster of the ceiling, while twirling his hands and fingers as if in a fine dance, and yet no matter how he stretched he failed to reach. A painful lump formed in the back of his throat, which he swallowed down to ask in a broken whisper:

“Do you ever just want to be free?”

He dropped his arm limply to his side. It landed with a heavy thud, while his vision faded in and out of focus, until he closed his eyes and took in several deep breaths, and Gabrielle – with typical fashion – moved across the room to the cloth bag, where she unpacked the few items that had been stowed away with his change of clothes. He continued to stare up at the ceiling, while the candles about the bedroom threatened to be extinguished under the cold draught, and he watched the shadows of his mother dance and sway and move above with mild indifference.

“Your brothers say they found you almost naked in the campsite,” teased Gabrielle. “I imagine she would have been your first, yes? We always romanticise first love. We dream of having the ‘first, last, and only’; in reality there is only those that are convenient to us in the moment, and then there are those that we dream about when reality fails to meet fantasy.”

“I didn’t run away for _love_ ,” spat Lestat.

“I am glad to hear it. I fear love too often leads to venereal disease these days.”

“Is that all ‘love’ is to you? A physical act?”

“I do not _know_ what love is any more, my son.” Gabrielle sighed. “I know what I once dreamed it to be . . . a man beautiful and handsome, with a wild and passionate personality, while also being able to provide and give me the life that I felt I deserved. Now I feel that ‘love’ is simply hoping my elderly husband makes no criticism, while conveniently being ‘asleep’ any time he seeks to topple me . . . I want more for you than to make my mistakes.”

“I would not have _married_ her,” choked Lestat.

“Perhaps that is worse . . . you would marry for convenience and _not_ for love?”

He sat upright and rubbed at his face. Gabrielle took a night-shirt from his chest, before carrying it over to him and turned around for him to change, and – without question – he quickly donned his night attire and climbed beneath the sheets, before she turned back with a smile. He said nothing as she took some furs from the foot of the bed, and proceeded to tuck him into the bed with the same gentility and patience as when he was a child. A chaste kiss pressed itself to his forehead. Gabrielle made to leave, but he grabbed at her wrist and rushed out:

“I didn’t exactly run away for love when I was _twelve_.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No! It was a monastery, Mother. I wanted to read and write and –”

“And you loved what they had to offer,” said Gabrielle. “You loved the sense of community and family, as together you shared in a single purpose and a single desire, and together you joined as one in meals and chores and education. You learned to read your name. You learned to write a few prayers. In time, you would have became literate, freeing your mind . . . expanding your horizons and limitations . . . you were in love very much, Lestat. You were in love.”

“In love with an ‘idea’?”

“No, in love with an _ideal_.” Gabrielle shook her head. “You ran to the monks for family and freedom, even if your love for them was platonic, and you ran to the troupe of players for family and freedom, even if your love for them was physical. You have never loved a person . . . no, you love me, that much is true, but otherwise you love only yourself. You run away in search of freedom and family, hoping that you will become complete. Each time you are brought back.

“I can understand, my son. I once travelled the world from my beloved Italy to this French countryside, and I had my studies and books and letters to free my mind. It meant that I was not dependent on physical pleasures or the mercy others. Still, I traded that all when I was forced to marry a man that I thought I loved and bear him the children that I thought I wanted.”

“So you know my pain? Is that it?”

“I would be foolish to assume that our pain is the same. Who can ever know whether it is worse to have experienced freedom and lose it, or to yearn for freedom and have never experienced it? Your father thinks you yearn to sow your wild oats. Your brother thinks you yearn to make a fortune. They both think too shallow . . . products of a small world and small minds . . . there’s nothing for you here. You are better than them. You could even be better than me.”

Gabrielle rose once again. In the distance, one of his nephews cried. Augustin would soon pace the halls with his offspring, while his wife would rant and rave about a life promised and a life deprived, and all of the household would wonder – albeit silently – whether she too would grow to silently resent their family as Gabrielle had grown to reset them. He watched as she strode across the bedroom, before finally reaching the open door . . . the hallway beyond was dark, enough that she stood out like a ghost in the night. Lestat cried out to her in a broken voice:

“Will you teach me to read?”

“You know I lack the temperament for teaching.”

Gabrielle failed to turn around. The answer was so flippant and dismissive that he may as well have been speaking to his father, and she stood with her back to him, even as her hand lingered on the door-handle and the candlelight cast strange shadows about her figure. He threw an arm over his head, while his free hand pinched at the bridge of his nose. A part of him . . . a dark and cruel part . . . wondered what benefits it must bring to be the only literate person in a house with a blind lord. He let loose a shuddered sigh and threw his arm outward. 

“I watch you sometimes,” spat Lestat. “You might lament your lost freedoms, but you’re able to read and read and read! You – You know about the colonies in the New World, about the artworks created in the Orient, and you get to read epic romances and ancient tragedies, so even if you’re _physically_ here . . . _trapped_ here . . . you can still escape on some level . . .”

“It’s a gift to which I’ll always be grateful.”

“But why _your_ gift and yours alone? Why can’t you share with your _son_? I’m not asking for anything that you can’t give; I’m not asking for money or jewels, affection or attention, but just . . . I don’t know . . . some _time_ . . . time is all we have here, isn’t it? Can’t you teach me?”

The poster remained upturned on his desk. The candles were burning low, enough that one or two naturally extinguished themselves in the molten wax, and in the darkening shadows she turned her head, so that her expression was revealed to him almost as dark as the shadows themselves. He regretted the question. The flare to her nostrils was back, as she lowered her head and stared hard in his direction, and he looked back . . . matching her gaze . . . tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, as his lips trembled and contorted into something almost comical.

“I can’t be a monk. I can’t be an actor. What _can_ I be?”

Gabrielle sighed. She walked back to the bed, before pressing the back of her hand to his head, and – touching her head in turn for comparison – muttered words in a language that half-pierced his consciousness, like words whispered in a dream or heard in another life. Finally, she kissed at his forehead once more. The way she shook her head spoke more than any words; once more she turned her back on him, as she brought her fingers to her lips and used the moisture to eliminate the remaining candlelight about the bedroom, until all he had left was darkness and memories.

“You can only be what is in your nature,” whispered Gabrielle.

“And what _is_ my nature? Who _am_ I, Mother?”

Gabrielle walked away. The door closed behind her with a soft click, so that the darkness swallowed him whole and left him momentarily blind, and – with trembling hands – he brought his fingers up before his face and strained to see them . . . strained to see _something_ even when everything had been taken from him. A hot pressure broke over his eyes, as choked sounds of laughter broke free from his aching throat, and he rotated his hands slowly in circles, but even as his eyes adjusted there was still nothing to see . . . nothing to feel . . . only emptiness . . .

“Who am I?”

The tears slowly ran from his eyes into his hairline, where they left a strange coldness about his skin and a moist warmth about his ears, and soon they ran hot and fast, until he realised the humiliating truth . . . he was weeping . . . _weeping_ . . . grieving something that he never had and always wanted. Finally, he curled in on his side. The furs were pulled close to his mouth, where they muffled his cries and moans. Sleep took its time that night, eluding him for some time . . .

* * *

“He _stole_ family jewels, Father,” spat Augustin.

The old man moved his hands over the chessboard. He felt every piece with a careful touch, even though he likely had every single carved piece of wood memorised, and a low hum spoke of quiet thought, even as the smile on his lips betrayed his decision. The old man moved a piece. It brought a scoff from Augustin, who moved his piece in turn, but instant regret had him reaching back for the board, where the old man slapped at his wrist and waved him away.

They were too lost in conversation to notice Lestat, who lingered in the doorway to the sitting library, and watched as Augustin paced and paused only to move a piece on the board, while the old man sat quietly in his chair with perfect posture and pleased smile. Augustin looked old beyond his years, with marriage doing him an ill turn. The lines about his eyes were deeper than they once were, with bags that were dark from sleepless nights, and his clothes were the fashion of one who let a spouse pick out each and every item. The old man said with a chuckle:

“Did you not wonder why the actors never took the jewels?”

“I assumed our threats were enough,” said Augustin.

“We are _old_ money, my son.” He sighed. “We are so old that the ‘money’ we have is tied up among these stones and land, with little to our name other than our dignity . . . dignity that your brother tried to steal when he ran away with common _actors_. The jewels he took -? If they were worth anything, I would have sold them long before now for food for our tables.”

Augustin winced. He stopped pacing to look about the library. The dusty room was like a tomb for books unread and books once loved, with the old man only able to tell their presence by touch and scent, and the shock upon his face – the anger, the disgust – seemed to suggest that he had failed to recognise the mice were more well-fed than their household. Lestat crept through the door and darted behind a bookcase. The old man jerked his head, tilting it slightly as if to follow a stray sound, before he continued with his turn. Augustin asked angrily:

“Why bring him back, then?”

“He is my _son_ ,” said the man. “He is your _brother_. I have nothing to give him; my land and property go to you as the eldest, and I have little to give your other brother, let alone a child whom I hope and pray you will both protect and not see destitute. I can depend on you, can I not? I can depend on you to protect him when I’m too infirm to protect him?”

“Father, I . . . if you’re trying to protect him, is dragging him home -?”

“I cannot offer him money. I cannot offer him education, training, or land. Do you know what I _can_ offer him? I can offer him self-respect, honour, and dignity . . . I will not have him live in poverty like a monk, or begging for money like an actor. I will not have him _lower_ himself to _nothing_. It would be better for him to die with his head held high than live in a gutter! It’s true there’s nothing for Lestat here, but there’s nothing for an uneducated man out there either.”

Augustin made his move. The old man did not even need to touch the board this time, but either by sound or excellent precognition alone was able to move his piece into a checkmate, and won the match with such speed that Augustin was left open-mouthed. Augustin circled the board, as he checked all angles and possibilities, and – with a groan – simply threw himself into the seat opposite their father, while the old man moved back the pieces. They were placed perfectly into each square, as the board was reset into a starting position, and the old man chirped:

“Here he is a _de_ Lioncourt. That is something . . . even if he is nothing.”

Lestat took in a hiss of breath. The old man turned as if looking in his direction, but Lestat said nothing and simply fisted his hand until fingernails broke into his palms, until small crescent-shaped cuts appeared red on pale white flesh. He fought back the tears, even as he darted back into the hallway. The quickening of his heartbeat was matched by a rush of adrenaline, along with a painful tension to his muscles, and he hunched over outside the doorway, as he stood caught between screaming and weeping. The five words continued to repeat in his mind:

_Even if he is nothing . . ._


	2. Chapter 2

The woods were an exceptional sight in winter. A thick layer of snow rested over the bare branches and treetops, and even coated the ground within so that it truly looked something from a portrait, with the sunlight always rising just above to cast a bright shine on the pure white. The ‘road’ through its heart was overgrown and impassable with horse-and-cart, but perhaps traversable to one with a great deal of determination and experience in such climates.

Lestat stood not far from its edge, dressed in a flimsy shirt and waistcoat. He held a rifle in one hand, one sent as a gift from a distant relative to his father from the New World, and it swayed at his side, while he eyed the road. The traversable part led to a fork further down the hill, with one path leading to the village and one leading to the castle. He would be visible from both. The footsteps in the snow would only make it easier for his movements to be traced, but – with goose-bumps on his flesh – he was far from tempted to delve deeper into the woodlands.

A set of footsteps echoed out behind him. He closed his eyes briefly, as he took in a deep breath . . . if it was not his other brother sent to ‘reason’ with him, it would no doubt be Augustin sent to ‘persuade’ him . . . his hand tightened on the rifle until knuckles turned white. The beating of his heart almost matched in perfect time to each hiss of breath, which would come with a flare of his nostrils and pursing of his lips. Lestat narrowed his eyes forward. He half-raised his gun, slowly and with a surprisingly steady hand. He swallowed hard.

“Stop,” called a voice. “You can’t leave me!”

The voice was familiar, but not familial in nature. He lowered his gun again. Lestat chanced a glance over his shoulder, where he saw a young man roughly his same age, but far taller than Lestat and wrapped in furs that – while inexpensive – were expertly tailored. The dark hair and eyes made him look the far opposite of Lestat, while his ruddy complexion spoke of a bone-deep cold and excellent health, but there was something else . . . something darker . . . there was a hollowness to his eyes at odds with the passion and bitterness of the de Lioncourt clan.

Nicolas ran the last few feet to Lestat. He looked Lestat over from head to toe, before – with a barely concealed curse – sliding off his coat and wrapping it around broad shoulders, and pulling it tight about the collar to fully cover Lestat from head to toe. It left him in a series of layers, ones that would be awkward to pull off later in private, but they had the lucky effect of hiding his slim frame and prominent bones. Lestat said with a low gasp:

“Nicki, you scared me!”

“ _I_ scared _you_? That’s certainly an ironic turn.”

Two warm arms threw themselves around Lestat. A soft pair of lips kissed him on either cheek, with a slightly lingering touch, and he held so tight that Lestat feared he may never let go, even as that warm breath washed over his neck and a head buried itself into his neck. Lestat stiffened, before finally relaxing and wrapping his arms around his friend and lover in turn. The scent of cologne drifted subtly through his senses, while the warm skin was unlike the cold of his rooms and fleeting or accidental touches of family, and it took all his strength to pull away. Nicolas reluctantly let go in turn, before taking the rifle and asking in a low voice:

“Why are you going into the woods at this time?”

“Why are _you_?” Lestat asked.

“My father threatened to break my hands.” Nicholas shrugged. “I think he’s still angry that I sold my law books to take music lessons and came back disgraced . . . he said: ‘try to play without goddamned hands’. I asked him how I could make _any_ trade without hands, and I think - . . . I think that was enough to dissuade his anger. He can’t afford to provide for me forever.”

“So . . . you came here to think? To be alone? To run away?”

“I don’t really know why I came here. He took my violin and I just . . . I heard the howls of the wolves and the caws of the birds, and it was like they were making music for me, luring me to them so that if I couldn’t create then they would create sounds for me . . . I’m weak. It was either weep while reading notes on a page, or . . . or . . . or walking into nature to find songs and sounds wherever I can. I suppose he’s right on one count . . . I _do_ sound crazy, don’t I?”

Nicolas lowered his gaze. He stepped back. The eyebrows knitted together, while hazel eyes were covered by a sheen of moisture, and his lips seemed ready to bleed under the teeth that dug into them, while he shuffled from foot to foot. He stilled only when Lestat placed a hand on his shoulder, and finally – with a shuddered breath – cast his eyes back to Lestat. They looked at one another, one with trembling lips and another with a half-formed smile, and Lestat moved his fingers to stroke lightly at a soft cheek, before Nicolas nuzzled into his palm.

“You sound human,” said Lestat. “You sound like you need an escape, too. My mother comes to talk to me at night, as if some conversation from one sane voice is enough to keep me sane, but day after day after day . . . they mock me, tease me . . . they are nothing but ignorant illiterates, and I’m scared to my core that I might grow to be like them. I’m scared I might grow to be belch and jeer, cursing the arts, just trapped in this peasant village . . . no hopes, no dreams . . . _nothing_.”

“Do they call you ungrateful, too?” Nicolas winced. “He tells me that I should be grateful. He tells me that I have food on the table, a warm bed at night to sleep, and shelter that many go without in this day and age . . . I could be forced into crime, or to sell my body, or beg on the streets, and I should be grateful I don’t . . . is it a sin to want more? Am I really ungrateful?”

“Why care about ‘sins’? If there is a god, surely the bigger sin would be self-destruction. You might not be throwing yourself onto the funeral pyres, but letting the world steal pieces of you day after day after day is no different from suicide . . . ambition keeps you alive. You need something to aim for, else you’ll just languish in sorrow and suffering and longing.”

“But I could have it worse, couldn’t I? I mean, is it wrong to simply make a good living and marry a nice woman and live content? I could have more, but I could have less, and I am grateful for all he does for me . . . he just wants me to have good skills, so that I live a long life, and I think law was his way for me to better myself. What is ‘better’, though? I feel like I was less feeding my mind and soul, but instead feeding our wallets and schedules, and I –”

Nicolas stopped. He smiled somewhat in earnest, but still kept his gaze low. Lestat slowly took his chin and forced him to make eye-contact, as he whispered: _‘you always cut yourself off when you think you’re babbling’_. Nicolas laughed, before throwing his arms around Lestat once more, and – this time – both instinctively fell into the touch, as hands roamed around every inch of body and both chattered idly in unison until voices collided into one incoherent sound. When Nicolas pulled back at last, there were visible tears in his eyes. Nicolas asked:

“Why are you here, my friend?”

Lestat shrugged. He positioned the rifle between his legs, as he slid his arms through the coat and wore it properly, and Nicolas – with a sigh – buttoned up the rest for him, while muttering insincere curses through a smile that brightened his features. Lestat looked again to the woods, where his eyes caught sight of a shadow in the distance. He moved towards it. Nicolas pulled him back. The dark eyes narrowed in silent warning, while hands pulled at his lapel and smoothed out the furs with a firm yet kind touch. Lestat held onto Nicolas’ shoulders.

“I thought about running away,” said Lestat. “They wouldn’t think to look for me through the woods, would they? They’d probably follow the main roads in and out of this dump, maybe toss a few building in case I was hiding, but the woods . . . no one would think to look!”

“No, as you’d have to be suicidal to camp through there.”

“The wolves can’t be _that_ bad, surely?”

“Lestat, the pack just seems to multiply and multiply, and I don’t think they’re even scared of humans anymore . . . they’re coming into the village at night, and people are still dying who go into the woods alone; we couldn’t even find the last one. If it weren’t for them, we could probably use a more direct route to the nearby towns and cities, but as it stands -?”

“As it stands, we have to take the roads around instead.”

A heavy sigh escaped Lestat. He kicked at the snow, sending a burst of powdery white high into the air and scattering over their outfits, and Nicolas – with soft laughter – brushed away the snow, which melted under his warm fingers. Lestat locked his hands behind his neck, as he walked slowly back along his path towards the castle. He made a game of trying to perfectly place each foot into the pre-existing footprint of the one that came before, and nearly fell with a wild sway of his arms. Nicolas caught him and lightly slapped him about his head.

“Did you ever grow up, Lestat?”

“Once,” said Lestat. “I didn’t like it, though. Too many taxes.”

“Lestat, I need you to be serious just _once_ and –”

“I was serious when I came to the woods.” Lestat shrugged. “It’s my family’s duty to get rid of the wolves, and if we just did our damned jobs -? I don’t know. I thought that maybe it would make it easier to runaway, maybe I could even prove my worth, or maybe I could just let the wolves have me and be done with this whole mess. I just need to _try_ , Nicki!”

He continued to retrace his steps, until Nicolas yanked him back. The hand on his wrist was firm, enough to form a vice-like grip that forced him to turn back, but it was also gentle and left no bruises or cuts upon his skin. Lestat frowned. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nicolas descended on him with great speed and delivered a clumsy kiss. It allowed his tongue to dart out and meet contact, while lips lightly pressed together, and he pulled back as soon as it started, with a blush that was as bright as their first time. Lestat absently smiled.

“Why not come spend the night with us?” Nicolas asked. “My father adores you, but I think he assumes it’ll be good to have noble connections in future. Who knows? You might want to run away less after a good meal, witty banter, and maybe . . . well . . . a little bit of a distraction?”

“A night away from home is only a night. I’ll have to go back at some point.”

“At some point, sure, but not tonight . . .”

“I need to return the rifle and –”

“I’ll have one of the local boys return it for a few coins.” Nicolas smiled. “What would you have done with this thing against a pack of wolves, anyway? If your father asks, I’ll have the boy say that your mother allowed me to borrow it; she’ll back up our lie to protect you. Come home with me. Let me take your mind away from these woods and running away.”

Nicolas brushed at Lestat’s cheek with his long fingers. It was Lestat’s turn to nuzzle into the warm touch, as he half-closed his eyes and kissed at the wrist, and he barely noticed as the rifle was slipped from his hand and held carefully at Nicolas’ side. He did notice, however, when Nicolas dragged him in the opposite direction from the castle, leading him down the sloping hill into the village below, where the people milled about like ants in a nest. Nicolas whispered:

“Not the woods. Not tonight . . .”

* * *

Nicolas was beautiful. The sheets were draped over his waist, revealing unblemished skin from the hair about his groin right to the flush of his cheeks, and his smile – even in sleep – was so pure that it seemed at odds with the stark bedroom and bawdy cheers from the nearby inn. A lock of brown hair fell about his face, while the rest was mussed and slicked back with sweat. He lay on his side, half-curled on the half-empty bed, and he barely stirred as Lestat kissed his forehead.

It took time for Lestat to redress. The floorboards creaked with every step, while the rustle of fabric would bring soft giggles from Nicolas, who seemed to dream some pleasant dream associated with the sounds of dressing or undressing, and Lestat was nearly tempted to wake him in the most pleasant way possible, except . . . except the woods were calling to him. He kissed Nicolas one last time, before slipping through the bedroom door and across the small landing to the one door opposite. It was the room of Nicolas’ father. The door was open.

The old man snored with loud and irregular sounds, while sprawled out on top of the sheets in long-underwear, and a line of drool spilled from the corner of his mouth, enough so that Lestat curled his lip and prayed that Nicholas would not look like that in his advanced years. He crept over to the closet and slowly pried open the doors, before taking the antique musket from the top shelf and checking that it was loaded, and – with equally careful steps – made his way to the stairwell and out through the unlocked shop doors. The air was cold outside.

No one said anything as he passed them. The drunks were too far gone, and the beggars too afraid to speak, but a few looked his way and recognised the handsome face, one that was ‘too beautiful’ for a place so brutal. He kept his head low and avoided their stares. After pulling his hood over his head, he made way on the main road that led through the village to the castle and woods, and took the sharp right that led the way to the road ‘through’ the woods.

He stopped just short of the first few trees.

The racing of his heart brought a sickening thud to his ears, while his hands were so clammy with sweat that he struggled to keep a firm hold of the gun, and the wind burned at the back of his throat, as cold clouds burst from his lips on every breath. The wolves howled. He stepped with careful paces towards the dark woodlands, with every swing of his feet bringing with it a crunch of snow and a visible footprint, and he struggled to control his breathing in the night.

A wolf howled somewhere to his far left. He turned and struggle through the weeded undergrowth and fallen tree trunks, and occasionally dropped hard and fast into a steep hole hidden by snow and darkness, enough that a ripping pain would course through his ankle. A shadow would sometimes dart by him . . . a wolf, a man, or maybe even a spirit . . . Lestat blinked back tears, as his lips cracked dry and his tongue darted out to wet them. He rolled back his shoulders and kept his head high, as he continued towards the howls of an animal.

“It’s my duty,” whispered Lestat.

The wolf soon made itself known. It stood just in his peripheral vision, hunched forward with its head in a strangely low position, and its eyes glistened in the moonlight that breached through a gap in the tree branches above. Lestat raised his gun. It shook too much to get a good aim. The fingers around the trigger were stiff and sore, like being pricked with a thousand pins, and his eyes watered too much for a clear sight, as the world distorted. He tried to still his heart with slow breaths, but the cold air sliced into his throat and stung with each inhalation. Lestat choked:

“I’m not nothing.”

He sniffed. He lifted his gun with purpose. The finger tightened on the trigger, but – before he could apply enough force – a few growls and groans echoed out in a strange stereophonic manner from all directions, until he no longer knew where to look. He darted his head back and forth between the trees. He spun around and around. There was no sign of other wolves, but he could hear them . . . hear them getting closer from all sides . . . until finally the pack appeared like apparitions in the night. There was at least eight, maybe even more.

He was surrounded.

Lestat dropped his gun to his side, as he cursed its inefficiency compared to his rifle. It contained just one bullet before needing to be reloaded. _One_. He cast his eye around with fast and flickering movements . . . _no high ground, no shelter, and no trees to climb . . . too far to run back . . ._ the wolves circled him. They bared their teeth. They growled. Lestat spun around in search of the ‘road’ back to the village, but he was too far off the beaten path . . . too far to orientate himself after having spun around in search of the wolves . . .

“ _Fuck_ ,” cursed Lestat.

He ran. There was a small opening between two behind him. He kept his eyes on the gap between the trees, as he shot wildly at one nearest to him, and – with a barely heard yelp – it collapsed with loud bang that stung at his ears and let loose a ringing sound. The gun dropped from his hands. He cried out and froze, hands ready to grab it from its resting place, but already the wolves were descending _en masse_ with snarls and growls and howls, and he ran at a speed he never thought possible, forced past his limits with a burst of inhuman adrenaline.

The pack gave chase in earnest. They occasionally were close enough to nip at his ankles, even with the boost in speed and exceptional focus, but – no matter how fast he ran – there came no end of the woods and no hint of the path. He chanced a look to his side. A black figure seemed to run in perfect speed with him . . . shrouded in shadow, cloaked in darkness . . . Lestat laughed, despite his breathlessness . . . _‘stalked by the shadow of Death’ . . ._

Lestat continued running, until something grabbed at him. It was a stray branch. The sharp twigs ripped into his shirt and yanked back the fabric, almost like clawed fingers in the darkness, and – losing his footing – the soles of his feet slipped on the icy ground. He collapsed backward. The snow soaked into his fresh cuts and shirt, while doing little to protect him from the hard impact, and he fought to find strength and purchase to roll onto his front. A wolf bit into his calf.

He screamed. The pain was incredibly sharp and piercing, while the pressure that followed threatened to break his bone in two, and he kicked over and over with his free leg, until the beast squealed and ran a few feet away at some distance. Lestat clamoured and climbed into a standing position, but the wounds in his leg were bleeding considerably . . . he could not support his weight . . . he crashed back down with a broken sob, while instinctively trying to crawl away from the others who nipped at his arms and waist and growled spit against his face.

“ _Get away from him_!”

A wolf squealed. A second cried. There was a series of thuds, as if punching a slab of meat, and a vast array of blurred colours and shadows before his vision, even as Lestat rolled limply onto his back and finally caught his breath in the snow. They no longer touched his body. They were kept at a distance by a looming black figure . . . it seemed to claw and punch at them, but occasionally it would seem to bite at them. The blood poured forth almost black. It came with a distinct and metallic scent, one that brought stomach acid burning at the back of his mouth . . .

The figure slowly came back into view. He turned to Lestat with skin so white that it was almost bleached, standing out in the darkness with an illuminating glow as it caught the moonlight, and eyes so green that they commanded his whole attention, as he found himself unable to look away from their piercing gaze. The hair was black and chin-length, like liquid ink, and perfectly complemented the white skin, while the man barely looked beyond his mid-twenties.

Lestat half-smiled. He fought to crawl towards this man . . . his saviour . . . while reaching towards almost angelic features that were so stoical in nature. There was little sign of fear or anger or confusion, and he swatted away one of the lunging wolves like a fly, with such ease that soon the pack kept its distance . . . as if _they_ were afraid of _him_. The man stalked towards Lestat, before scooping him up into his eyes almost bridal style, while a sharp gasp escaped Lestat.

He reached up with a bloodied hand to the white cheek. It was smooth to the touch, like porcelain, and yet it was deathly cold even against his icy fingers, as if all life had been drained from it and replaced instead by this strange indifference and strength. He carried Lestat with slow strides in the opposite direction to which Lestat ran. He showed no sign of fatigue. The adrenaline fled Lestat in one swoop, leaving a bone-deep fatigue, as finally his heart slowed and his muscle unclenched, and he stared deep into those eyes, as the man said:

“You’re the boy from the castle.”

Lestat merely murmured, as the man picked up speed. The trees blurred by him in an unnatural manner, but he failed to notice them with half-lidded eyes and breathless gasps . . . this man was different. He was mysterious, unlike the simple and plain women who bored him. He was strong and muscular, unlike the boyish body of his friend. This was someone who could fend off a pack of wolves and save a stranger from their savage bites, all without breaking a sweat or showing any hint of emotion, and Lestat – even as he struggled to stay awake – wanted to know more. 

“I’ll take you home,” whispered the man.

* * *

A few muffled voices penetrated his consciousness. They were unlike the deep and melodic tone to the man that rescued him, and too filled with barely restrained rage to belong to his Nicki, but they were familiar and roused him from an uncomfortable slumber. He strained to hear them, but the female and male voices were at war to see how loud their whispers could become before breaking into shouts and screams. It left them incoherent and unnatural.

He struggled to fight his eyelids, as they fluttered and closed and reopened. They were heavier than he expected, filled with sleep and tears, and his vision took time to return, even as a figure sat at the edge of the bed and loomed over him. The figure raised a finger to its lips. Lestat looked past them, over their shoulder, to see a man and woman violently gesticulating and signalling to one another at the far end of his bedroom, each one on the verge of blows. He laughed under his breath to finally recognise them: his mother and father.

The figure on the bed grew into focus. It was Augustin. He moved the furs over Lestat’s naked body to wash away the blood and dirt from a specific area, before covering him again and moving the furs from another part, and – as he tended to Lestat – Lestat noticed his leg was heavily bandaged and a wound on his chest was stitched. He lifted the furs with a weak hand to check parts of his body that could not be exposed, but all in all he looked relatively well.

“Are you okay?” Augustin whispered.

Lestat shook his head. The musket sat at the foot of the bed, covered in mud and blood and tufts of fur, and his clothes lay tattered across the floor, where they had been torn or ripped from his body, in a desperate bid to quickly reach his wounds. There was no sign of his saviour. It was as if the man in the woods did not exist, like a phantom or a dream, and – for a brief moment – he wondered whether that was all it was . . . he tried to sit upright. A firm hand pushed him back flat on the bed, as Augustin glared at him and wagged a finger in warning.

“The wound to your leg is superficial,” said Augustin. “You have a lot of bruises and marks to your back and hips, though, but I made sure to tend to those alone. If Father asks, you only have the injuries made by the wolves . . . I’ll come back to talk to you about the other marks in private later. I know we have our differences, but I won’t let anyone hurt you, Lestat.”

“No one is hurting me,” spat Lestat.

“Good, then it should be a very short conversation.”

Augustin stood. Lestat lifted the furs one more time, where visible bruises marred his hips in the shape of handprints, and – with a dark blush – refused to make eye-contact as Augustin stormed out of the bedroom, leaving him alone with his parents. He barely found time to close his eyes, before his father marched over to the bed and leaned over. The old man loomed over him, so close that every choked word sent a spray of spit over Lestat as he shouted:

“Do you have _any_ idea what you’ve done?”

Lestat rolled his eyes. He waved a hand dismissively, but the gesture – despite only being visible to those with eyesight – was somehow made known to the old man . . . perhaps it was the small draught of air, or perhaps he knew his soon too well, but he slapped hard at Lestat’s hand with such precision Lestat was left breathless. He brought his hand to his chest and cradled it. He stared with wide-eyes at his father, whose red cheeks puffed out like an animal, and his glassy white eyes focused eerily at a spot above Lestat’s head. Lestat mumbled:

“What does it matter? I’m nothing to you.”

“You’re my son! You are everything to me, even if you do not deserve my love.” The old man wrung his hands. “I have pleaded with you, reasoned with you, disciplined you, bribed you, and tried everything in between to get you to behave as a noble should . . . instead you run away yet again to hunt wolves with the stolen musket of your childhood friend!”

“Actually, it was his _father’s_ musket that I stole.”

“And now you back-talk me as if you were a petulant child! The man that found you said that you would have been torn apart had he not saved you, and he asked for nothing from us except a recommendation of an inn and some water for his trip. As far as I am concerned, he may as well have been angel to stop _yet_ another son of mine from meeting their maker . . . sometimes – sometimes I wish it were one of your brothers that survived. My heart cannot take this!”

Lestat winced. He forced himself to sit upright. The furs fell about his waist, revealing the marks on his back from the actress and bruises on his hip from his friend, and – with a shuddered breath, and watering eyes – he looked away from his father who paced back and forth. He rubbed a hand over his chest, where his heart could be felt pounding against his palm. He fought for breath. A terrible tightening struck at his ribcage, like a vice tightening around his torso, and his head grew light, enough that it swayed and moved with a strange imbalance. Lestat attempted:

“If I had training in horsemanship, gunmanship, and –”

“You would what?” The old man laughed. “Would you take on the wolves single-handedly to save our village and reopen our paths through the woods? You are too selfish! You think only of the attention and spotlight, how amazing it will feel to be validated and lauded, and not instead of the grief your parents and siblings would feel to find your corpse! I – I cannot . . .”

The old man grabbed at his chest. He stumbled back. A shot of adrenaline coursed through Lestat, as both he and Gabrielle made to move towards him, but he simply threw up his free hand and signalled them clearly without saying a word: ‘stop’. He gathered his breath again and stumbled to the doors, while keeping his back to both his son and wife, but – when he half-turned – there were visible tears brimming in his eyes, threatening to fall down his cheeks. The old man pointed a trembling finger directly to Lestat, as his lips curls and he spat out:

“I forbid you from leaving the castle grounds, Lestat.”

“You – You can’t! That’s not –!”

“You clearly can’t be trusted not to put yourself in danger.”

The door slammed shut behind him. Lestat screamed. It was long and loud, tearing at his already sore throat, and continued until it transformed into something primal and broken and weak, as he openly sobbed and pulled his legs up to his chest. He buried his face into his knees, where tears fell wet and fast onto the furs. His chest and wracked with cries. Lestat continued to cry and cling to himself, even as Gabrielle took a long night-shirt and helped him to dress for the night, and even eased him down back onto the mattress, before mopping his brow. She asked:

“Why would you go into those woods alone, my son?”

Lestat let loose a broken sigh. He gently pushed away her hand, forcing her to move the wash-clothes back to the basin, and rolled onto his side to face away from both her and the door, instead focusing on the moon and stars beyond his open window. The woods would be in view if he stood. He would be able to look out and see the wolves and birds and maybe the man . . . the man brave enough to walk the main road, the man strong enough to fight his way to the village . . . the man that was everything he wished that he could become. 

“I have to get away from here,” spat Lestat.

“So you will run away again and again, even if it puts your life at risk?”

“I heard Father say that he would rather me live a proud man than to die in the gutter, but I would rather die a free man than to live in chains! I swear to you, if I don’t get away soon then I will find the highest window and jump to my death! How am I supposed to stand this? I want more from life. I want more than just living off the crumbs of men supposedly superior to me!”

“Your father does not think himself ‘superior’, but just –”

“I was sad at first. I was depressed. Do you know how I feel now? I feel . . . _angry_. I feel like this is some cosmic injustice, but there is nothing I can do to put it right! I am helpless. I am weak. I am at the mercy of this ‘God’ that Nicolas claims to be so forgiving and says that I should pray to for advice, but every time I pray -? Ha! Those prayers are no different than my pleas to father, and maybe that’s the issue . . . maybe God thinks he knows better, too.”

“You would resort to blasphemy?”

“If no one will listen to me, maybe I can shock them into hearing me.”

Gabrielle stood. The long arms folded across her chest. A cold glare was cast in his direction, enough that his blood ran icy cold within his veins, but – as he opened his mouth – she simply raised a hand and signalled to him much as his father had done. He fell silent. He waited with racing heart and watering eyes for her to speak, but she simply went to his chest and opened it to reveal his selection of basic clothes and accessories. He said nothing, even as she lifted a secret compartment that had been unknown to him until that moment. Gabrielle continued:

“I have a few jewels and heirlooms that I kept secret from your father.”

He stared with open-mouthed, as she withdrew a small bag and put back the compartment. It was hardly a large bag, but he knew too well that it would not take many jewels to earn a small fortune from a wealthy merchant, and he laughed to realise his chest would be the last place anyone checked for items of worth. Gabrielle slid the bag into her pocket. He remained silent, even as she made her way to the basin and lifted it from the iron stand, and – without word – she threw the unclean water through the window. Lestat watched and asked:

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I planned to give them to you once you were a man,” said Gabrielle. “I had hoped you would start a new life with Nicolas far from here, but I cannot stand by and watch you driven further and further into depression and madness. I also thought that I may sell some sooner, so that I could pay for you to hunt . . . it would give you purpose, a sense of belonging . . .”

“I – I can’t ask you to do that . . . not for me.”

“If I were to sell them all now, I could pay for a horse, for weapons, for proper lessons from someone well-versed – not only in hunting, but – in the arts and humanities . . . he could teach you to read and write, as well as languages and history and geography. It is a mere idea . . .”

Gabrielle barely found time to replace the basin. He threw himself at her. The sheets tangled about his feet, tripping him in the process, and – in her advancing years – she struggled to stand under the sudden weight of her almost-grown son, but he refused to loosen his hold. He hugged her tight against him, while he wept against her shoulder and recited over and over like a mantra: _‘thank you, thank you, thank you’_. He relished in her warmth. He relished in her kindness. Gabrielle held him back and kissed at his cheek, as she whispered gently:

“A tutor would make you this happy?”

“ _You_ make me happy,” he laughed. “Thank you.”

He held her even tighter. It took all her strength to coax him away, as she led him back to bed and tucked him in with reverent fingers, and – smoothing out his hair – kissed at his forehead, before extinguishing the candles about his bedroom. He continued to laugh, unable to hold back the strange sound that he almost forgotten was possible. Gabrielle stopped at the bedroom door, where she wished him a warm goodnight, and still through laughter he said yet again:

“Thank you . . .”

* * *

A beautiful tune broke through the silence of the night. It was a low and legato melody, like snatches of an old lullaby or a song once heard in a dream, and it roused him from his light sleep, enough that his eyes fluttered and hands twitched. He slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, as he ran his hands through his tangled locks of blond hair. The sound was coming from the window . . . somewhere outside . . . just beyond his window . . .

_The man from the woods._

Lestat threw himself off the mattress, not stopping even to dress. He ran to the window, clad only in what Mother Nature provided, and flung open wide the shutters, which banged loud against the walls on either side, dislodging some crumbling plaster in the process. He cast his eyes about the woods in the distance. His heart raced. The moonlight was the only source of light, casting dark and moving shadows among the trees, but – still half-asleep – reality was slow to dawn.

The woods contained no figures, no music . . . no mysterious stranger . . . instead, the music was coming from the ground below, only maybe ten or twenty feet from the castle. Lestat winced. A cold churning sensation rolled in his stomach, bringing painful chunks of food back up to his throat, and he forced a smile with trembling lips, as he lowered his head and saw his closest friend and most trusted companion. Nicholas smiled. The moonlight caught him just right, so that he looked younger than his years, and he played the stolen violin with a pure passion.

It was amazing to see the speed and dexterity with which the bow moved across the strings, and soon the tune evolved into something new . . . something different . . . Lestat closed his eyes and focused on the unique sounds: _Sonata in G Minor by Giuseppe Tartini._ He cast his gaze back down to Nicolas, whose dark hair and eyes glistened in the natural light, and leaned down on his windowsill, as he listened with a sincere ear to the music that permeated the gardens.

Nicolas blew him a kiss.

Lestat waved back. He cast a quick eye back to the woods, where – for a brief second – the shadows moved in the vague shape of something alive . . . a wolf most likely, but perhaps – _just perhaps_ – a person that lived on the outskirts as a guardian . . . _his_ guardian. Lestat blushed. He looked to Nicolas and smiled to see his passion and focus. The racing of his heart pounded and pounded, until he cast his blue eyes back to the woods, but by this point the shadow had gone, and yet – despite its absence – he was certain of one thing and one thing alone:

He was no longer alone in the world . . .


	3. Chapter 3

“Is this safe, Lestat?”

The moonlight struck Nicholas from behind. It illuminated him with an ethereal glow, making his dark hair seem almost black in the darkness, and it cast his face in further shadow, as he leaned against the tree on the edge of the woods. He could almost pass as a twin of the mysterious man . . . the saviour . . . except for his expression was softer, and he always looked with longing at those around him, as if he yearned to make a connection with the world.

Lestat sat on an upturned tree-trunk in the small clearing. He spread out a blanket across the dried ground, free from the leaves and mud and debris of winter, and stretched out his legs far before him, while leaning back to gaze at the leaves above that rustled in a light breeze. It was a welcomed relief, as a faint sweat broke over his flushed flesh. The loose strings to his billowing shirt did little to cool him, and the shade of the woods – and late hours of the night – did little to lower the overall temperature. Lestat gestured for Nicholas to take a seat. 

Nicholas looked back over his shoulder, where his eyes fell on the castle. He bit hard into his lip, while his fingers drummed a rhythmic pattern over his upper arm, and – with a long sigh – finally turned around and took a seat on the blanket. A basket sat just to the side. There was a very faint aroma of freshly baked breads, but one made stronger when Lestat kicked the woven lid with his foot and exposed the various items wrapped in light cloth for protection.

“It should be fine,” teased Lestat.

Lestat slid onto the blanket. He took out the bread, along with small pots of preserves, and carefully made a small plate for Nicholas. The plate was slid with some force, until it knocked lightly against a slim leg, and – while it was initially ignored – soon Lestat began a constant tapping that forced Nicholas to slam down a hand to keep the plate in place. Lestat huffed. He proceeded to make his own plate, while those dark eyes stared at him with barely a blink, and not once did Nicholas show interest in his food, but instead he spat out:

“It’s hardly fine when you nearly _died_. I nearly _lost_ you!”

“That was months ago,” said Lestat.

“Yes, but you haven’t been out into the woods since!”

“I wasn’t _allowed_ out of the castle! That’s hardly my fault.”

Nicholas ran his hands over his face. The long fingers pressed into his eyes, before dragging their way down his cheeks and lips, so that the skin stretched in a less than attractive manner, and finally – with a heavy weight – slapped down against his thighs. He continued to ignore their shared picnic, even as Lestat picked at piece of bread and dunked them into the honey. A strained silence passed between them. It was broken only by the howls of wolves in the distance, the caw of ravens toward the castle, and the every present rustle of the leaves above.

“I only nearly died because I was surrounded. I went too deep inside,” sighed Lestat. “I’ll take down the wolves one day; I just need to learn to shoot and ride, maybe get a better layout of the land, and I’ll show everyone . . . I’ll show them that I’m more than just some brat that expects a better future to be handed to him on a silver platter. I’ll love to see the looks on their faces!”

“You mean of gratitude? Appreciation?”

“No, of _shame_ ,” spat Lestat. “I want to see them sheepishly look to their feet and admit they were wrong about me. I want them to see that I’m not nothing, that I could accomplish something that they or anyone else couldn’t! I want – I want to be . . . be . . . be _something_.”

He threw himself back against the blankets, where he stared upward to the treetops. The branches were interwoven until they created a thick canvas, one that was an array of greens and browns that were almost the same hue in the darkness, and yet – as he stared – the thousands of leaves moved in a strange unison to the breeze, as if they were of one mind. He reached up toward them. He strained his hand, until his fingers ached, but – like the stars – they were beyond his reach and gazed down with a cold indifference. Nicholas whispered:

“You can’t be _anything_ if we die here torn apart by wolves.”

“We’re too close to the edge of the woods.” Lestat shrugged. “I can _see_ the castle through the trees, and there’s nothing here that would lure the wolves out into the open. The food is mostly fruits and bread and preserves . . . no meats. Please, let’s just enjoy the time we have? I can’t get any privacy in the castle, and the old man refuses to me into the village –”

“Lestat, sometimes I feel you only want me as a friend or as a distraction.” Nicholas huffed. “I love you, more than I can express, but that’s the problem . . . _everyone_ loves you! I feel that you’re so surrounded by admirers, whether platonic or sexual or romantic, that you’ve just become . . . I don’t know . . . inoculated to it. You can have your pick. You’ve stopped seeing that for some people love and sex goes hand in hand . . . they’re separate things for you.”

“I don’t quite follow.”

“I’m saying that for _me_ I love you with both body and soul, and each time we have sex that it’s more like making love . . . I don’t see you as a friend or a distraction, but something more combined . . . a – a lover. I don’t know how you can fuck me one moment and return to being my best friend the next, and I hate never knowing if you’re expecting long philosophical conversations or a quick tryst to pass time. I would rather make love and make pillow-talk.”

“I – I don’t quite know how you want me to respond. I resent that you’d think I’d see friendship and sex as two mutual exclusive things, like I’m incapable of romance, but . . . the actress doesn’t count! Of course she was a mere distraction; women are so boring and shallow, how could I fall in love with one? I don’t think it abnormal to only see them as something sexual.”

“And what about me?”

“What about you? You’re my best friend.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes. He pushed forward his plate. It knocked against Lestat’s boot, forcing him to sit upright with his weight on his elbows, but – as he made to speak – Nicholas raised a hand in warning and climbed to his feet, before he paced back and forth across the clearing. The heavy stomp of his footsteps matched the quick beating of Lestat’s heart. He took in a sharp and quick breath, as he pulled himself into a cross-legged position, and pressed a hand firmly to his chest, while forcing himself to breathe slowly through the adrenaline. Nicholas choked:

“That’s the problem! You see me as a _friend_ . . . I’m the one you play games with, converse with, and even sometimes fuck to pass time, but when have you ever just completely given your heart and soul to me the way that I’ve given myself completely to you? It’s all so – so . . . one-sided.”

“Nicki, I’ve only ever been with two people. It’s hardly a large enough sample –”

“You know, sometimes I think it’s just that no one can come close to matching your mother.”

A low sound between a scoff and a cry escaped Lestat. He curled his lips, while his nostrils flared and cheeks reddened, and leaned forward until he was almost bent in two, as he stared up with narrowed eyes at Nicholas. In turn, Nicholas stopped pacing. He stood before Lestat, where he looked down with a far softer expression . . . sadness . . . perhaps pity . . . there was a wince to his features that deepened a few lines about his eyes, while his lips pressed into a thin line. They simply watched one another, until Lestat forced his gaze towards the woods with a blush.

“She’s an admirable woman,” said Lestat. “I hate that you make it sound like I’m still a child trapped under her shadow! I admire her as my hero; she’s educated and passionate and understands me . . . I think I sometimes see her in you, Nicki. You’re all her best qualities; it’s why I adore you so much. Is it really a bad thing to hold a partner to such a high standard?”

“Lestat, it’s no compliment to compare a lover to a parent.”

“Why isn’t it? Are you saying that there’s something wrong with my mother?”

Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose. He took in a deep hiss of breath, before turning his back and staring back towards the castle, and – with a shuddered sigh – his shoulders slumped and his knees gave way just enough for him to stumble a step forward. It led him further away from Lestat . . . closer to the castle . . . he braced himself against a tree, where his fingers toyed with the rough bark. Lestat stood in turn. He stepped carefully around the blanket and items, before stopping just beside Nicholas, and touched the slumped shoulder. Nicholas flinched.

“You’re looking for something that I can’t give,” whispered Nicholas. “You want an ideal of a person that doesn’t exist . . . a parent to protect you, a friend to amuse you, a sexual object to fulfil you . . . you want all roles in one person, you want everything. In the meantime, you fail to realise that you _are_ my everything. I just wish it could be reciprocated . . .”

Lestat chanced a second touch. He let his hand slowly fall on the soft fabric, before squeezing just enough to feel bone, and – with lips trembling in a broken smile – came around to stand directly behind Nicholas, with his hands sliding so that arms wrapped around a trim waist. A few soft kisses pressed against the smooth skin of the neck. Nicholas hummed. He tilted his head to exposed more of the long column of flesh, and Lestat whispered gently against him:

“Nicki, I love you, but I just –”

A twig snapped behind them. They parted. Lestat threw himself several feet away, as he raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, and Nicholas spun around and stumbled backward, until he was pressed against a tree at the furthest edge of the wood. He was pale. The colour was so drained from his flesh that he could have passed for a corpse, and he swayed where he stood with his head lolling from side to side, already on the verge of fainting.

Lestat searched the woods for the source of the noise. A dark and shadowy emerged from the shadows, almost as if it were there all along, and waited still as a statue beside the fallen tree trunk, where it stood with hands deep into its pockets. Lestat struggled to focus his gaze, but soon he made out the sharp features and inky-black hair. It was him . . . _his saviour_. A sharp inhalation filled Lestat’s lungs, as his heart raced like a drum in his chest, and his mouth watered as he stared in awe and wonder at the older gentleman. He smiled. He blushed.

“I – I was just leaving,” muttered Nicholas.

Lestat jumped. He quickly looked between Nicholas and the gentleman, turning his head over and over in rapid succession, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, as his lips stumbled over a string of incoherent sounds. He moved towards Nicholas. Nicholas stepped back. A barely audible ‘ _no’_ broke though Lestat’s consciousness, as Nicholas raised a trembling hand and made a patting motion in the air, and – with a shake of his head and broken laughter – marched out of the woods and back onto the main road. He practically ran into the village.

A strange quiet followed in his absence, where Lestat heard only his racing heartbeat. He turned towards the man, who made no sound from where he stood . . . no breaths, no whispers . . . not even a rustle of clothes from an unseen shuffle or fidgeting movement. Lestat crept closer . . . cautious, slow. He licked at his lips and flushed from head to toe, as he headed towards the powerful man clad in such expensive and uniquely tailored attire. The man said coldly:

“Did you not learn your lesson last time you were here?”

The words were so sudden that they took Lestat by surprise. He froze mid-step and rapidly blinked, while his mouth fell open without word, and the man – chuckling with a low and reverberating sound – moved at last with slow and long strides, before he began to circle Lestat like a predator to its prey. The circling continued for several rotations, until he stopped just a few feet from Lestat, and looked up into the blue-grey and dilated eyes. Lestat noticed the small height difference for the first time. He beamed bright and placed his hands on his hips.

“Apparently not,” joked Lestat. “Are you here to punish me?”

“Do you truly not care that you nearly lost your life?”

“You fascinate me, do you realise that?” Lestat smiled. “You ask _me_ whether I care that I nearly died, when – obviously – I couldn’t care less so long as I finally break free of . . . well . . . _those_ people that make my every waking moment a misery, and yet -? You realise that _you’re_ the strange man seemingly living in the woods, right? I heard you took a room at the inn, but –”

“You need to go home. It’s not safe for you here.”

“Don’t interrupt me! I don’t have to be liked by you, in fact I’m _used_ to people not liking me or finding me a nuisance or wishing I could be someone else, but I won’t be ignored . . . I won’t – I won’t be talked over as if I’m a child . . . nothing . . . nobody . . .”

Lestat winced. He waved a hand lazily at the other man, as he turned his back on them and muttered a low: _‘forget it’_. He barely made it a few steps. A hand grabbed at his wrist, with an ice-cold touch that chilled his veins, and the strength was so absolute that Lestat stood no chance at breaking free, even as he gave a tentative tug against the hold. He half-turned, looking through loose locks of blond hair, and stared into expressionless green eyes. A shudder ran through Lestat, as every muscle in his body relaxed and his smile returned. The man asked:

“Your name is Lestat, is it not?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“So I’m sorry, Lestat. I apologise.”

The grip loosened about his wrist. A stark-white hand returned to its pocket, and Lestat – with furrowed brow, lips pursed – brought his hand to his chest and lightly rubbed at the unblemished skin with a gentle touch, even as he looked the man over from the polish of his shoes to the expensive ribbon that held back his black hair. The man stepped back into the shadows, until he was cast in such darkness that he threatened to become a part of it, and – before he could vanish from sight – Lestat lowered his hands once more. He choked out in a rushed sound:

“You come to these woods every night.”

“I do,” said the man. “Every night.”

“I notice you sometimes watching the castle. I like to think I caught your attention, but – more than that – I’ve noticed a slow decrease in the wolf population . . . also, people are catching less hares and deer, almost like someone else is hunting them first. It’s you that doesn’t care for your life, not if you’re risking it by camping and hunting in these parts, but me -? Well, why should I worry when I know my guardian angel will always be here to watch out for me?”

“You place too much faith in strangers. Even if you are right, what is to say I will always be here to protect you? Am I not to sleep? To eat? To die? I also saved you once . . . what if I have insidious reasons? What if I am hurt you? Take you? _Rape_ you? I could be a monster.”

“I’ve met monsters, my friend. _You_ are no monster.”

“How can you possibly know that? You’re a –”

“If you _dare_ say I’m a ‘child’, then I’ll show you how a man throws a punch.” Lestat scoffed and threw up his hands. “I won’t deny that you’re a powerful man, one strong enough to save me and fight away the wolves in the process, but let’s use some common sense . . . if you _meant_ to harm me, you’ve had weeks to steal me from that castle or even harm me in my bed.”

“I could be biding my time . . .”

“You speak like a man that believes he is damned. You create your own hell by wallowing in self-pity and self-loathing, as if you really _were_ a monster, and maybe that is what you see when you gaze upon your reflection, but I have no time for self-pity . . . I see in you a man of many depths, and I see in you a man that is at odds with this abominable place. You’re – You’re one of the rare few humans in a town of monsters. I want to get to know you.”

Lestat marched forward. He stopped just short of the man, leaving only a few shrubs and wild flowers between them, and – even with the barrier – found enough space to throw out a hand and grab at a velvet sleeve, holding with enough strength to crumple the fabric. The beating of his heart increased, enough that his vision narrowed and sparks of colour burst over his sight, and he struggled to breathe evenly through the passing seconds, even as a sweat broke under his armpits and over his back. He closed his eyes tightly, as he asked in a rushed single breath:

“Will you be my tutor?”

A loud laugh burst from the man. It was a stark contrast to his stoic appearance, and his chest reverberated with the laughter, as he extricated his wrist with a simple twist of his forearm. Lestat stiffened at the sound. He stood straight and folded his arms across his chest, before lifting his head high with a hiss of breath. The cold rush of adrenaline now burst forth with a renewed purpose, as his nostrils flared and cheeks flushed, and his lip curled as he attempted to speak and stumbled over his words. He clenched his fists and found strength to scream out:

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m sorry, but you want _me_ to be your tutor?”

“My mother offered to pay for someone to tutor me,” said Lestat. “It’s mostly to learn to hunt and handle myself; she’s already bought one of the best horses, and my rifle is one of the best that money could buy, so I have all that I need to learn. I – I also want to read and write . . . you must know enough to read and write, right? I’ve not misjudged you?”

“Why would you assume -?”

“You have expensive silver buttons on your coat, plus cologne that smells like it came from Paris, and you know enough to travel to this dead-end village and rent a room. If you have money and are well-travelled, most of the time you tend to be educated . . . even if just a little.”

A smile broke across the man. He stepped forward, back into the clearing, and this time circled the blanket about the ground, while occasionally pausing to knock an item with his foot. There was a clear interest in the various pots and pieces, but there was equally no sign of hunger or desire . . . at least, that was, until he looked towards Lestat. A brief gasp was barely emitted, but the slight licking of his lips and swallowing to his throat was obvious. He cast his green eyes to Lestat’s neck, where a racing heart caused a pulse to quicken, and looked away to whisper:

“You’re a very astute young man.”

“I’m a _desperate_ young man,” pleaded Lestat. “I don’t want much in life. I just want to prove myself and earn my place among people . . . if I can hunt, I can earn my keep, and if I can read and write, I can prove myself to the family that holds me back.”

“You want to better yourself . . .”

“I also don’t want to be _alone_. Nicholas is amazing, but I’m worried I can’t give him what he needs from me, and my mother is my saint, but I want more from life than mere familial and platonic ties . . . I want – I want someone that can accept me for what I have to give, but can inspire me to be greater and complete me in turn. I want a partnership. I want an _equal_.”

“If it is equality you seek, you are looking for that in the wrong man.”

“Why? Do you think yourself so great or me so worthless?” Lestat rolled his eyes. “If I can’t find a tutor, I swear to run away over and over and over until I can escape by other means. You watch over me anyway, so why not just watch over me . . . well . . . at a closer range?”

The man continued to walk around the makeshift picnic. Lestat huffed, before dropping to his knees and packing the items away with a rough hand, and – muttering vague obscenities – ignored the man that circled him and refused to offer any help. He succeeded in tuning out the sound of footsteps, but when they stopped it forced his hair to stand on end. The man stood directly behind him. He was so close that to sit upright would be to touch him. Lestat shuddered and licked his lips, as he packed away the very last of the items. The man murmured:

“I am merely passing through town. I never meant to stay.”

“Then why linger through winter until spring?”

A low sigh echoed about the clearing, as the man walked away from Lestat. He moved towards the darkness of the trees, in the direction of the disused road that was abused by time, and stopped only when the darkness had consumed his hair and clothes. The turning of his head showed a deathly pallor that featured a white so pure that it was rarely seen outside of nature, and Lestat – instinctively stepping closer – was stopped by a small nod from the man. The confidence and power he exuded was enough to spark arousal in Lestat. The man said:

“I will think about it –”

Lestat smiled.

“– _if_ you promise to be patient.”

There were no other words said. Lestat opened his mouth to speak, but the man was already long out of sight, as if he had simply evaporated into the air itself, and yet – somehow – his presence could still be felt in the warmth of the springtime night. A rustle in the trees spoke of movement, while a feeling like a wind brushing against him spoke of life. Lestat closed his eyes. He let the shadows embrace him, as he tilted back his head, and a small voice echoed out:

“Be patient . . .”

* * *

The summer nights were short and humid. They brought a beautiful sight from his bedroom window, as the woodlands were alive with hundreds of blossoming plants and blooming flowers, and an array of insects and animals filled every inch of the fields and forests. The man only ever appeared after sunset, as if averse to being seen during the daylight hours. He would linger like a shadow in various spots. He never appeared in the same spot twice.

Lestat leaned against the stone frame, as he gazed out towards the trees. The man stood almost fully submerged in the darkness, until it hid everything but the white of his cheeks, and Lestat – with a sigh – leaned forward as if pulled by an unseen force, until he caught himself from falling at the last possible second. The jolt stole his breath. A burst of adrenaline added to the sticky sweat that coated his skin, while his open shirt barely moved in the still air, and – panting and laughing – he looked back towards the man. He was gone. Vanished.

A low curse spat out with little emotion. It was hollow and cold, much like the laughter that threatened to turn into tears, and his fist – trembling and tight – smashed itself against the stone, forcing a red mark to form on his skin that would turn into a bruise. A stray tear spilled from his eye down onto the stone, where it darkened the material and set it apart from the rest. Lestat fixed his gaze onto the woods and stared hard. He screamed out with all his might:

“Am I to wait forever!”

Lestat choked on the tears. They were heavy and fast, falling as naturally as the laughter from his lips, and – with a shake of his head – he spun away from the window and marched towards the bed, before throwing himself down onto the straw mattress. He buried his face into the pillow. He screamed. The sound was barely muffled, but it was distorted enough not to attract attention from those in the neighbouring rooms and suites. Lestat rolled onto his back. The tears and laughter continued until sleep slowly encroached on his consciousness.

* * *

The autumn leaves were a beautiful array of colours, from gold to brown to red. They littered every inch of the village, even along the main path towards the woods and castle, and made a satisfying rustling sound as leather boots kicked a path through their multitudes. Lestat stopped a few times to gain speed for a run and – with one large kick – sent a shower of them spilling overhead like a rain from above. Even in the sunset, they were still a remarkable sight.

Lestat pulled his coat closer to his chest. Each exhale left him in a small cloud, sending white mist billowing about his face, and every so often he would try to blow shapes and numbers, much as he once did during childhood, but all he accomplished was an incoherent smoke. The smile on his lips brought a flush to his cheeks, made ever darker by the lingering afterglow, and every muscle felt relaxed and light, as he made his way towards the main doors of the castle. It loomed in the darkness as a shadowy tomb. The smile faltered. It faded.

It returned only on sight of two figures before the main doors, seemingly lost in conversation, and one was soon recognised as his mother, with long blonde locks blowing in the breeze, even as she pulled her shawl about her chin to keep them in place. He ran and waved to her, as laughter burst from his throat. There were no books to provide a barrier, and no siblings to provide an obstacle, but just her presence in the open and close enough to converse. He stopped only when the second figure turned. Lestat stumbled forward. He gasped.

 _It was him_. The man that watched him from the woods . . . the man that saved him the previous winter, the man that spoke to him sometimes in the spring . . . his heart picked up speed, as Lestat lifted his collar in an attempt to hide his love-bites about his neck. He stopped a short distance from them, while his cheeks darkened and eyes dilated. Lestat ran his hands over his clothes, smoothing out the various creases, and carefully untangled a few stray locks.

“Lestat, come closer,” called Gabrielle.

He ran the last of the distance toward them. The leaves scattered about his feet, as he moved at full speed and ground to a halt a few inches from the older man . . . his saviour. He drew in a shuddered gasp, one that may have been mistaken as breathlessness from the sprint, but his eyes never once moved from that eerie and incandescent face that seemed to almost reflect back the pure moonlight from above. Lestat barely registered his mother’s voice, as she asked:

“Do you know what day it is, my son?”

“November seventh?”

“Yes, but what event does that bring to us?”

Lestat frowned, as he forced his distracted gaze in her direction. The smile she bore was sincere, matched only by a gentle reverence about her blue eyes, and her arms were folded about her chest in mock frustration, as she quirked an eyebrow back. A few seconds passed . . . realisation was slow to dawn, but finally his mouth dropped open. He returned to his laughter and looked from face to face, as he clasped a hand to his chest and asked with some speed:

“Is _he_ my present?”

A stumbled series of sounds escaped the man. He mumbled and fumbled in search of something coherent to say, while a dark blush broke over his usually ivory-like skin, and Gabrielle – with a sharp hiss – slapped Lestat firmly on his upper arm, bringing forth a loud yelp of pain. He nursed the raw skin, as she whispered an apology to the man. They ignored his pout. The man raised his hands, as he offered a mumbled ‘it’s fine’, and Gabrielle finally turned back to her son, with an expression difficult to read, one caught between amusement and frustration.

“You are seventeen now, my son,” said Gabrielle. “I have promised you a tutor for the longest time, but no man worthy of the role has passed through our village. I had all but given up hope, until last week this young gentleman came to ask about the position, and I thought it would be a nice birthday surprise to gift to you an education . . . a start of a new future.”

“He – He will be my tutor?”

“This gentleman is called Louis de Pointe du Lac. He is highly educated in the various arts, but also skilful in hunting and riding . . . I have offered him a room in one of our towers, so he may watch over you to keep you out of trouble. I trust this will end your attempt to run away?”

Lestat threw his arms around Gabrielle. He held so tight that the bones beneath her thinning skin were prominent to the touch, and his face buried itself into her greying hair, where he felt her slowing pulse against his cheek. The years had not been kind, and those left were likely limited in numbers, but never in his life had he felt as close to her as in that moment, or as desperate for a lifetime more to fully express his gratitude. Gabrielle placed two soft hands on his back. The simple touch was enough to break through the barricade, and finally he freely wept . . .

He pulled back just enough to kiss her over and over on her cheeks, before taking her hands and kissing those in turn, and the only words he could think to speak were a mantra of ‘thank you’, as he refused to release her even for a second. Gabrielle laughed. A kiss to his forehead was enough to soothe him, before she lightly pushed him back a few steps. It allowed her to catch her breath, while giving him space to look back to the man . . . no . . to _Louis_. Lestat whispered:

“This is the greatest gift you have ever given me.”

“Oh? Not life itself?” Gabrielle teased.

Lestat waved at her with an almost dismissive gesture. The smirk and wink he gave spoke of a playful intent, one that likely allowed for her to respond with little more than a scoff and a twirl, as she spun around and re-entered the castle with a stage-whispered: _‘children’_. Lestat was unable to look away from Louis. He failed to see her as she left, but he did see the small tug at the corner of Louis’ lips . . . one that sent a spark of arousal through him, as he all but gasped:

“When can we start?”


	4. Chapter 4

The horse was a magnificent beast. Its fur would shimmer and waver with every stroke, like skimming long fingers over clear waters, and the pure white was almost silver in the moonlight, enough that Lestat could not look elsewhere. He stared with wide eyes, while he ran his hands over the flank. The muscle was solid to the touch, unlike that of any human, and there was a raw power there that sent shivers through Lestat, as he moved to the mane. He stroked at the hair.

It ran soft through his fingers, soothing him and the horse. He placed the other hand to the muzzle, guiding the face to look toward him, and saw soulful eyes that followed his every movement, gazing at him with a consciousness that seemed beyond most humans. Tears pricked threatened to fall. He laughed. Lestat moved back to the seat, made from the finest leather and materials, and – placing a foot in the stirrup – tried to get the right level of force to pull himself into the seat. A hand grabbed at his waist. It stilled him before he could move. 

“It is too soon to ride,” chided Louis.

Lestat looked over his shoulder. Louis stood in an open white shirt, beneath a brown waistcoat, and yet there was a distinct lack of a coat or jacket, even with the cool night breeze ruffling his locks of black hair and catching at the fabric of his outfit. There was no flush to his cheeks, no goose-bumps to his flesh . . . there was only the cold and icy stare aimed at Lestat. He was a man of few words, and the ones spoken were absent on the steamy mist that fell from Lestat’s lips with every breath, but what he said with that one look was worth a thousand words.

A smirk befell Lestat, who chuckled under his breath. He used his strength to pull his body onto the saddle, and let his toned thighs rest astride the powerful horse beneath him. He leaned forward to stroke at the long locks of white hair, while his eyes ran between the stables near to the castle and the forest beyond, and half-smirked as his fingers moved towards the reins, toying with the long strips of leather. Louis let out a hiss of breath and asked:

“Do you even know how to ride?”

“I read books and I took him for a few short trots,” said Lestat. “I want to be able to gallop with him, though; I want to feel the wind in my hair, be able to traverse vast difference . . . can you imagine how thrilling it would be to be so unrestrained? I could have the world at my fingertips! I know nothing bad would happen; you wouldn’t allow it, would you?”

“I believe there is a saying: ‘learn to walk before you can run’.”

“And why _not_ learn to run first? If you can run, walking should come easily after.”

Louis sighed. The hands at his side clenched and unclenched, before he finally climbed onto the back of the horse, although – to Lestat – ‘climb’ was too inelegant a word. He moved with such speed and skill that he was a blur before the eyes, with such a stretching of shadow that it seemed he all but leaped, and his feet certainly never met the stirrups. Lestat blushed, as two arms came around his waist and took the reins in soft hands. He leaned back, forcing Louis to rest his head on a broad shoulder, and – through the intimate pressing of two bodies together – Lestat asked:

“I – I thought you would ride your own horse?”

There was a distinct lack of breath on his neck, but still he felt the cold chin and cheek in the crook of his neck. Instinctively, he tilted his neck to expose the flesh. The pulse raced fast beneath the skin, while his heart pounded in an odd rhythm, and his eyelids fluttered while he licked lightly at his lips. Louis nuzzled against him. It was for a second, maybe two, but it was a discernable gesture that brought a spark of interest to his member, and yet – no sooner had it started – it was soon gone. Louis pulled back his face and gazed away.

“You wouldn’t get down, even if I asked,” said Louis. “I also don’t trust you not to ride away from me, were I to turn my back for a second to climb astride my horse. This way, you can have the experience of riding fast while I keep control of the reins. I don’t see any harm in our first lesson being a fun introduction to riding, so long as we are serious after this.”

“Finally! You’re seeing things my way at last.”

“I also cannot neglect your lessons in French. Your mother is paying me to educate you in all areas, Lestat, as such I want us to have at least one French lesson for every riding lesson . . . if you think this will be all fun and games, I fear you will be truly disappointed.”

The horse moved. It was a slow walk, with its hooves leaving heavy prints in the muddied ground. Lestat craned his neck to watch the tracks left in the castle grounds, leaving a record of their movement and a visible track back to the stables, but soon Louis took his chin and forced him to look forward. He whispered: _‘always look forward, never look back’._ The words sent a chill through Lestat, who arched his back and felt the firm chest flush against him, and whose gaze faded in and out of focus. He tried to turn his head again.

Louis once again forced his gaze forward, before flicking the reins and gained a little speed. The cold breeze brushed against his cheeks, blowing back his hair and scattering it before Louis’ eyes, and yet – despite the obstruction – Louis never lost focus. He simply retained his strong grip and statuesque position, as they trotted towards a slight hill that would lead to a stretch of land just out of sight from the castle windows. Lestat swallowed hard, as he smiled in the moonlight.

“I have nothing against French lessons,” said Lestat.

“I am glad to hear that.”

“I just don’t want them to hold me back. I want to be able to ride and hunt, to protect myself and my village, and I want to be able to do what no one else can . . . I want to be able to read and write, sure, but I also want something just _mine_ , that only I can do, and something that no one else can take from me! Is that so much to ask? I can ride if you’ll just let me.”

“I will let you ride once I know it is safe for you to ride. If I gave you the reins now, what would be to stop you pushing the horse to its breaking point? It could injure itself. It could kill you. I am only asking that you wait to progress your lessons at an acceptable pace. Be patient.”

“But I don’t to _be_ patient!”

“Aye, there’s the rub, Lestat. I will teach you to ride with time, just as I will teach you to hunt, but you must learn the basics first and you must learn your French alongside. If you know better than your teacher, what is the point in my being here? Clearly, I could just leave you to your own devices. If you want to race now against my wishes, you merely have to tell me so . . .”

A pout swept across his features. Lestat frowned and hunched, while Louis chuckled from behind, and yet – even as he leaned away – those arms stiffened on either side of him, coming closer as if in a mock-embrace. They kept him safe. The jostling of the horse did little to knock him from his perch, not with those arms to bar his fall, and the thought that those arms might one day be around someone else -? He winced. Lestat dropped back again against that chest, only to tilt back his head and rest it against a broad shoulder. He stared up at the stars.

“I do not wish for you to leave,” mumbled Lestat.

Louis tilted his head, just enough for lips to brush against an earlobe. The touch was so soft and fleeting, so intimate and sensuous, that a low gasp echoed out through the darkness, and a burst of adrenaline shot through his veins, amplified by the warm breath that penetrated his ear. Lestat arched his back and tilted his neck. He licked at his lips. Louis simply chuckled once more, before pulling back and resuming a more distant position as teacher and mentor.

“Good,” said Louis. “Then how about a reward for being good?”

A flick of the reins had the horse on its hind legs. It let loose a whinnying sound, before galloping at full speed into the dead of night, churning up mud with every clop of its hooves upon grass, and – with laughter and tears – Lestat leaned forward and clung to its mane. The wind rushed through his hair; it whipped at his eyes and forced them half-closed, narrowing his view of the world that was a blur before him. He whooped. He cheered.

“I’ve never felt so free,” cried Lestat.

He turned his head to Louis, still laughing through the adrenaline rush. The smile that Louis wore was surprisingly . . . _gentle_. He breathed fine despite the cold wind smashing against them, and he looked only at Lestat instead of the blurred background, but his lips . . . his smile . . . it was a softness that reached his eyes, making them glisten in the moonlight. Lestat blushed. He quickly shot his gaze back to the fields ahead, but all the while he could feel Louis behind him . . . touching him . . . encompassing him. He smiled for the entire ride.

* * *

“Are you sure we should be doing this?”

Nicholas was barely heard in the night. The rhythmic clopping of the hooves drowned out his voice, which was already strained and high-pitched, and – in the distance – wolves howled, almost as if triggered by the rushed questions and strained sentences. He clung to Lestat’s jacket, with arms wrapped tightly around his waist. The long fingers crumpled and creased the material, leaving visible marks, and his head was pressed firmly to a shoulder. It was a claustrophobic hold, with every muscle stiff and tense. Lestat struggled to shake him off.

He tightened his grip on the reins, as he leaned forward and urged the steed onward. Nicholas moved with him, keeping the death-like grip, and Lestat rolled his eyes even as he strove to pick up more and more speed, heading over the hills with tread-marks visible from previous riding lessons. The past few weeks had left a trail over hills and fields, almost enough that one day they could become a footpath in their own right. Lestat yelled back:

“Why wouldn’t it be okay?”

“You’ve barely had any lessons,” choked Nicholas. “I don’t know if you mean to show off, or just think yourself more capable than you are, but . . . but I kind of think you’re riding just because you were told you _can’t_! What do you even get out of this, Lestat?”

“A sense of freedom? A sense of fun? Oh , lighten up, Nicki!”

“I shouldn’t have agreed to this . . . you’re going too fast! We’re going to fall.”

Lestat scoffed. He looked over his shoulder, where the pale face was almost white in the moonlight, and eyes were screwed impossible tight, adding wrinkles to an otherwise perfect face free from any blemishes or imperfections. Nicholas was so tense, when Louis was so relaxed. Nicholas was so afraid, when Louis was so brave. The warmth of his body was nothing like the cool arms that controlled the speed and kept them in order, but restrictive and weak . . .

He pulled the reins. He turned the horse direct to a boundary bush. The speed increased, until Lestat was hunched forward like a madman and no longer seated, but instead balanced precariously on the stirrups with eyes locked ahead at his goal. The beating of his heart was fast and loud, while his hands held tight to the leather until knuckles turned white. He swallowed hard a lump in his throat . . . _‘come on, come on’_ . . . the horse finally reached its target. It jumped. The feeling was electric. They soared through the air and landed with a thud.

A loud cry escaped from Nicholas, verging on a scream. He punched Lestat hard in his upper arm, strong enough to leave a deep bruise beneath his jacket, and – as Lestat opened his mouth to argue – a series of broken sobs and cries escaped from Nicholas. Lestat winced. He lowered his gaze and gnawed the inside of his cheek, until he tasted iron and bile, and yet the sniffs and sighs continued past what he could endure. He tried again to speak, but Nicholas screamed out:

“I – I want you to stop right now, Lestat!”

“I . . . I’m not exactly _great_ at stopping, but I can –”

“You’re going to get us killed! Stop. I want you to stop!”

The horse veered towards the wood. Lestat cursed, as he pulled and tugged at the reins. A hand came to slap hard and fast at his chest, while Nicholas hammered against him in rapid succession, while screaming loud in his ear . . . _‘stop, just stop!’_. . . a sharp ringing pain pierced his eardrum, as Lestat yanked and tugged at the reins. The horse continued an impossible gallop. It churned up mud and dirt, splattering it against new boots and old trousers, and the world went white for Lestat, with the peripheral vision closing in . . . he froze . . . he choked out:

“He – He won’t stop. He won’t stop!”

Lestat yanked with all his strength. The horse reared up. Time stopped . . . the arms around his waist gripped tight enough to restrict breath, and his lungs burned with the cold air that pierced through his throat and consumed his being, as he fought to stay conscious. He could no longer keep his hold . . . his thighs ached and legs slid, while his body – enslaved by gravity – was dragged ever downward . . . his eyes widened. Nicholas screamed. The wolves howled. The reins slipped from sweat-soaked fingers, as he tumbled ever and ever down . . .

A shadow lunged from the darkness. It struck them hard, like a bar of metal across their sides, and threw them with some force toward to the ground. The shadow turned midair. It took the blow of the muddied ground and cradled both Nichole and Lestat in its arms, before rolling away from the horse. It dragged them to their feet. It shoved them back, while raising hands to provide a makeshift barrier, and – finally – the shadow came into focus . . . _Louis_.

Louis ran quickly to the horse. He grabbed at the reins and made hushed sounds, while the two engaged in a strange dance . . . the wildness of the beast, the calm nature of man . . . Lestat stood with racing hard and sweat-drenched flesh, staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as Louis did the impossible: he tamed the stallion. The quiet sobs of Nicholas barely pierced his consciousness, even as Nicholas paced in his peripheral vision . . . wiping away tears, wracked sobs . . . Lestat remain still as Louis finally secured the horse. All was well.

“You’re in awe of him,” whispered Nicholas.

Lestat did a quick double-take. He shot his gaze between friend and mentor, while his gaze lingered on Louis more and more with each look . . . _long locks blowing in the wind, shirt half-open like one disturbed from sleep . . . powerful, confident, strong . . ._ a smile crept over Lestat, as he pressed a hand to his chest. Every heartbeat pounded against his hand. He stumbled back a step, as the adrenaline rushed cold from his system, and his legs – trembling and weak – struggled to hold his weight. He kept his eyes on Louis, even as he replied:

“He saved our lives, that’s all.”

“Lives _you_ put in danger.”

“I never forced you to ride with me, Nicki!”

Nicholas laughed. It was broken. It was jaded. It was empty. The sound echoed out, forcing a flinch from Lestat who turned with a softened expression, but – as he made to speak – Nicholas raised his trembling hand and stepped back . . . stepped away from him. Lestat froze. He fought for breath once more, but there was no chance to talk . . . no chance to apologise . . . Louis strode over to them with fast and forceful steps, hunched with fists and bared teeth. He flung a finger at Nicholas’ direction, and – when he spoke – his words were cold and loud.

“Go home,” spat Louis. “Go home, boy!”

Nicholas looked from Lestat to Louis. This was a man that he had yet to meet. This was a stranger that Lestat babbled endlessly about; gossip over breakfast, wonderings on their excursions . . . even reverent words shared in place of pillow talk. Louis loomed large, far unlike the descriptions of a timid and meek man . . . powerful, enraged . . . _in control_. . . he stormed forward and stopped a mere inch before Nicholas and leaned into his face.

“ _Now_ ,” screamed Louis.

He fled. There was no hesitation, no question . . . Nicholas simply ran as fast as his legs would allow, even as he stumbled and tripped in the mud and the darkness, and – as Lestat made to help him – a hand grabbed at his jacket and flung him back. He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. Nicholas was soon out of sight, lost to the night, and that left Lestat alone . . . alone with a man so infuriated that all sense and reason seemed gone from his system, leaving a shell of a man . . . leaving a creature that was almost inhumane . . . a man possessed . . .

“I – I can explain,” rushed Lestat. “I just –”

“You can explain?” Louis laughed. “You can explain how you stole away in the dead of night? You can explain how you ignored my warnings? You can explain how you nearly killed yourself, your friend, and your horse? All in a single breath? You only think about yourself, Lestat! You are so consumed with living in the moment that you give no thought to future consequences!”

“I’m fine, though . . . no harm, no foul, right? I –”

“How can a man so beloved by others have no love for them in turn? I am starting to wonder how you could grow to be so self-centred, when you claim to have been so neglected and abandoned! Would your mother not grieve? Would _I_ not grieve? If you think your existence so worthless, at least give thought to your friend and his family! He would have a father that would cry for him, a mother that would weep for him . . . a brother that would –”

Louis stopped dead. He threw a shaking hand over his mouth, as if he could cram back inside the words that so escaped, and soon laughter spilled forth, until it turned into tears . . . tears so dark that they almost absorbed the light, leaving marks like blood down his cheeks. Louis turned his back to Lestat. He wiped at his face and eyes, before spinning around and marching right into Lestat’s physical space, forcing Lestat to stumble back until he was right on the edge of the woods . . . so close to entering the forest, so close to being lost to nature . . .

“ _You could have died_!”

A pair of hands snatched at the lapels of his jacket. He was lifted high into the air, with an inhuman strength, and – with a roaring scream – Louis rushed forward and slammed him hard into the nearest tree, knocking the wind from him. The bark was rough and hard against his back, and his vision blurred from the force of the impact. He fought for breath. Louis leaned in so close that their lips were practically touching, every breath was shared, and Lestat could see nothing except the piercing green of those half-narrowed eyes that burrowed into his soul.

“If I tell you ‘no’, I expect you to listen!” Louis hissed. “You continually make demands from me, always expecting me to act as your saviour or mentor, and yet the one thing that I ask of you – _the one thing_ – is the one thing that you ignore . . . you claim to care for me, but have you ever considered that I might have come to care for you? If you die -? If you die . . . your blood would be on my hands . . . I would have had to carry your body back . . . lifeless . . .”

Louis released him. The hands fell limp and loose, as they slid slowly down Lestat’s chest and abdomen, before dropping like a heavy weight at Louis’ side, before he stepped back . . . walking away from Lestat with watering eyes and trembling lips. He was hurt. Lestat reached out toward him, aiming his fingers at the chiselled and smooth cheeks, but Louis swatted away his hand with a lazy and weak gesture . . . Lestat – now on his feet – shuffled where he stood. He avoided the gaze of the man on the verge of weeping, while he choked on the air itself.

“I – I’m sorry,” whispered Lestat.

Louis ran his hands once more over his face, as he slumped forward. He was no longer the imposing presence that loomed over them, but instead something smaller . . . weaker . . . he seemed to shrink into himself, with his hands now in his pockets. Louis sniffed. He turned his back on Lestat, while losing himself into the darkness . . . he was a mere shadow. Lestat stepped towards him . . . slowly . . . like one would approach a wounded animal.

“It’s fine,” said Louis.

The words were hollow. The spirit was long gone, replaced by the emptiness once associated with Nicholas in his most depressive states . . . sometimes Lestat at breaking point . . . the silence that followed was long and hard, and penetrated with the sounds of nature. He walked away at a slow pace, where he dragged his now muddied feet along the ground, and clicked his tongue to call forth the horse, that followed at a slow walk until its reins were back in hand. Lestat shouted:

“I’ll do my lessons properly, I promise!”

Lestat ran from the edge of the woods, until he was finally on the fields. He moved at a quick pace, striving ever to catch up with Louis, but – with preternatural speed – the older man seemed to match the pace of the now galloping horse back to the stables. Lestat was alone. He was alone watching the shadow of the man he loved leaving him, while he was left only with the fading adrenaline and encroaching fatigue. He forced his feet forward, while blistered feet screamed out in pain, and – with tears pouring down his face – whispered out in a murmured voice:

“I promise . . .”

* * *

Lestat slid into the seat opposite Louis. The dining room was large enough that it could seat their entire family if needed, all without any two people ever being forced to sit by one another, and yet – despite the isolation and cavernous hall – there was only a couple of feet between them. He looked through the candlelight to the ivory skin of Louis, who held a candelabrum between his long fingers and stared into it with a mesmerised – yet indifferent – focus.

He placed a glass of red wine on the table, before sliding it across the wooden surface. It stopped just before Louis, who continued to stare into the flickering flames, and the soft light caught at the liquid, making it sparkle through the glass. Lestat drew in a shuddered breath. The silence between them stretched ever onward, while Louis continued to stare into the candlelight, and Lestat – with racing heart, watering eyes – bit deep into his cheek. Louis eventually sighed, before slowly placing the candelabrum onto the tabletop, and asked in a low voice:

“Is this how you apologise?”

Louis reached for the long stem of the glass. He pulled it toward him, before swirling the contents with a lazy hold, and inhaled deeply the aroma of the wine, before putting the glass back down with a contented murmur. The wine never passed his lips. Lestat furrowed his brow, as he leaned forward and looked between the glass and man. The long silences were a form of torture, with no expression or words to speak of intent or opinion, and Lestat was left alone to wonder what went on inside that mind. Lestat forced a smile with trembling lips.

“It’s how I attempt to return to us to normalcy,” said Lestat. “The _apology_ comes in the form of the homework you set, which is currently sitting on your bedside table, and – with some luck – I think you’ll find I’m doing much better with my alphabet and handwriting . . . I know it doesn’t undo the harm done, but I thought it a start? I do care about you and your opinion.”

“That’s all well and good, but do you care about yourself?”

“I don’t follow. If anything, most people say I care about myself _too_ much.”

“Well, that I would argue, too, but . . . you are a fascinating dichotomy, Lestat. There are times I see your ambition and determination, and I think you will live forever, immortalised by your works or by a name that will go down in legend . . . and at other times -? Well, I see you willing to throw it all away for sheer curiosity or impatience or indifference, and I wonder –”

“Wonder what?”

Louis leaned back into the wooden chair. He tented his fingers before him, leaving space between him and his place, and just beside the candelabrum sat a leather-bond book, one written clearly with Latin characters, but whose spelling evaded Lestat. They formed words . . . that much was obvious, but beyond that they meant nothing to him. Lestat ran a hand through his hair, before scratching awkwardly at his neck, and stared with unwavering focus at the book, as he forced a smile that failed to reach his eyes. He asked with a strained voice:

“Would you read that aloud to me?”

“Hmm?” Louis looked to his book. “Ah, this is not appropriate. It is a political treatise about the current economic climate and the revolutionary sentiments sweeping over from the east, nothing that would interest you . . . I can barely stay awake myself when flipping through its pages.”

Lestat pouted.

“I do, however, have a selection of books upstairs . . . I brought them over from my home in Paris, so that I would have something to read in my travels. My family have recently moved to a plantation in New Orleans, so life would be lonely without a book or two . . . I have one about ghosts and mischief, perhaps this would be more fun for you to read?”

A bright smile brought a sparkle to bright and blue eyes. Lestat bounced a little in his seat, making the wood bang on the tiled floor, and his hands tightened on the edge of the seat, while his lips twitched and jerked as words of gratitude threatened to spill forth. Louis smiled in turn, before pushing back the wine and nodding to its contents. It was taken with such quick speed that the wine spilled over the edges, and Lestat mumbled out a quick series of apologies, before Louis placed a hand over his and helped to still him. Their eyes met. They blushed.

The door to the dining room opened.

It creaked with a loud groan of the hinges, before the old man entered the dining room. He walked slowly and carefully to the dining table, even avoiding the chair that had been purposely moved into the old man’s usual path, and – with hand tracing the edge of the table, ears perked with great attention to detail – sat several seats away from Lestat. The old man proceeded to finger the pewter plate, while he angled his head towards the kitchen. A few faint scents drifted out, but – with hunting so difficult – it was a less than appealing smell. The old man asked:

“Is Lestat proving a better student than a son?”

“I have never had a pupil before,” confessed Louis. “After the trouble your son has given me, I doubt I will ever have one again, but . . . I would not trade this experience for the world. I have never met one so passionate and quick to learn, and – if he can apply some self-discipline – I believe he could put even my writing and riding to shame. He is a good boy.”

“Ah, a good boy? If only he could show some respect to his parents . . . too often does he run away, too often does he create scandal . . . no matter how I try to protect him, teach him, guide him -? Ha! It is all for nothing. He cares only for himself, that one.”

“If I learned to be selfish, I learned it from you,” spat Lestat.

The old man grabbed at his stick. It was always left carefully at his place, always there ‘just in case’ of a different day or a busy dining room, and – with great speed – the cane was taken and whipped around, where it struck hard at Lestat’s lower leg. The force was enough to bring a yelp, but not enough to bruise or cut his flesh. Lestat reached down and rubbed at his leg, even as he sent a deathly cold glare to the old man, and the old man withdrew his cane and leaned it back against the table, before he turned his head back to Louis. He asked with a stern tone:

“Why must you only teach him at night?”

“Why _not_ at night?” Lestat asked.

“I wish to be present during your lessons! You are too headstrong and short-sighted, and if this man teaches you the wrong books – ideas too revolutionary, legends too wild – it will only encourage you and lead you to dark places. I spend every day worrying whether you are putting yourself in danger, whether you are putting our family at risk, and night is the only blessed rest that I get from my fear that I may lose my son . . . even then you often run away.”

“Maybe I _like_ my lessons at night, _because_ it’s a break from you.”

“Even now you would disrespect an old man!”

“If I may,” interjected Louis. “I believe evening lessons better for Lestat. He is easily distracted, enough that the comings and goings of the household would steal his mind from his lessons, and he would forever yearn to be away from his teacher, always afraid of ‘missing out’. There is a quiet calm with the night . . . even if Lestat always seeks to disrupt it.”

“I hear that he stole the horse last night?”

“I cannot steal what belongs to _me_ ,” shouted Lestat. “It was _m_ y horse!”

“It was a mere misunderstanding, Sir. I gave your son permission to show his friend a simple trot, but the horse was spooked and galloped away at some distance. I was able to find them and stop the horse, before escorting both to their respective homes, and Lestat has promised to only ride under my supervision in future. If anything, he handled himself very well. I was astounded by his bravery in the face of danger, as well as his control of the beast.”

The old man sighed. He leaned back into his chair, where his muscles lost their tension and his hands fell limp in his lap, and his expression faded into something that was rarely seen . . . something akin to peace. Lestat frowned. He took his glass and sipped at his wine, which ran rich and deep against his tongue and warm down his throat. A strange silence feel between the three men, while the candlelight flickered and cast long shadows, and someone laughed from far in the corridors beyond the dining room. It seemed to stir something in the old man.

“You waste your time with this one,” said the old man.

“I do not consider my time wasted.”

“He has no respect for authority. He rebels against any rules that disagree with him, unable to handle the feeling of being ‘controlled’, and he will rebel against you, too. It would be better to teach him a trade than the arts and hunting, for at least then I can die at peace knowing he will be his own master and able to earn a living when I am not here to provide for him.”

“If I can teach him to hunt, he can provide food. If I teach him to read, he can correspond to make trades beyond the local village. I believe these foundations will be enough to give him a good life, and if I am wrong . . . I will gladly give my life to atone for my misjudgement.”

“How very dramatic for one so supposedly educated.”

A low sigh escaped the old man. He tapped at his plate, followed by his cane, and finally pushed back his chair to stand upright, before following the edge of the table with his hand. Louis and Lestat remained silent, even as the old man reached the main sets of doors. He stopped. He turned back towards them, almost as if he could see them through eyes cloudy and grey, before finally stepping through into the hallway and closing the doors behind him. Lestat let loose a long sigh and slumped forward, before muttering with a half-smile:

“He thinks you’re a vampire, you know.”

Louis tensed. He took in a hiss of breath. Lestat simply downed his wine, before letting out a low chuckle and sliding the empty glass between them, and let his hand fall back into his lap again, but his eyes moved back to the dining room doors. The smile fell from his face. He frowned and ran his hands back over his face and through his hair, before cricking his neck and waving a lazy hand in the air. He dropped back against the back of his seat. Louis stood. It cast a long and dark shadow over Lestat, made worse when he licked his fingers and extinguished the lights.

“Why would you say that?” Louis asked.

“He’s simple and superstitious,” said Lestat. “I wouldn’t mind if you _were_ a vampire, but it just amuses me that it’s easier for him to believe in supernatural creatures that rise at night to feast on blood, and yet his son . . . his flesh and blood -? _That_ is a step too far for his belief.”

Louis placed a hand on his shoulder. It was a warm and gentle touch, but with enough force that it spoke words that could not be said aloud . . . Lestat craned his neck to Louis. They locked eyes in the darkness, while the few last lights at the far end of the table threatened to burn away, and it was just enough light for Louis to guide Lestat to his feet, before linking his arm and guiding him towards the dining room doors. The light was extinguished as they passed. The abrupt darkness took Lestat by surprise, enough that he almost missed the whispered words:

“Even if your father does not believe in you, I do.”

Lestat blushed. He beamed a faint, yet bright, smile. The doors opened wide and Louis escorted him back outside into the corridor, where the brief shape of his father could be seen in the distance . . . waiting, listening . . . almost _watching_ were it possible. Lestat winced, but Louis simply took his hand and pressed a chaste kiss to the back of the skin. It still tingled with immense warmth, even as Louis walked back to his rooms . . . this time Lestat’s smile was strong.


	5. Chapter 5

Nicholas was beautiful. He lay on the old mattress, sprawled out and dishevelled, with his black hair splayed about him like a halo, and yet – despite his creased and ruffled clothing – he could have easily adorned a canvas as true artistic perfection. The pupils to his dark eyes were blown wide, and his chest heaved hard and fast beneath his half-open shirt. He licked at his lips. He threw his arms high over his head, while one leg was half-raised, and Lestat – swallowing hard – crawled over him and parted those long legs wide, situating himself between them.

The mattress lay beneath the open window. A beam of sunlight shone through, hitting Nicholas just right to betray the red tinge to his cheeks, and the saliva on those swollen lips glittered as if invited Lestat to kiss them once more . . . again and again and again. He pressed a chaste kiss to Nicholas’ cheek, followed by one to his jaw . . . his neck . . . over and over, he kissed and sucked at the sensitive flesh, drawing out barely muffled moans. Nicholas groaned out:

“Lestat . . . we should stop.”

Lestat laughed. The only sounds were those of Nicholas’ father tending to customer, with the constant tinkle of the bell above the door, and people gossiping and arguing outside, as the village beamed with life on an unusually warm afternoon. Lestat whispered: _‘just keep the noise down, it’ll be fine’_. He suckled at the neck, leaving some love-bites, and let a callused hand slide down the toned chest to the strings of the shirt, where he pulled them open.

A loud sigh escaped Nicholas, who arched his back. Lestat slid his hand further down, teasing the warm and soft skin as he went, until – finally – his palm pressed against a straining erection, and sought to quickly undo the buttons to the fly, even as Nicholas whispered ‘no’. He stopped when a hand grabbed him by the wrist. It was a firm hold, one strong enough to push hard against the bone and send out a searing pain, and yet just soft enough to avoid bruises. Lestat looked up into those blown eyes, only to see them narrowed and half-lidded.

“I’m serious, Lestat,” whispered Nicholas.

“I – I’m sorry.” Lestat sighed. “I just . . . I got carried away.”

He gently sat on his haunches, while raising his hands in surrender. Nicholas braced his weight on his palms, as he slid back against the wall, and stretched out his legs along the mattress, while quickly fixing his clothes and adjusting to a sitting position. He still looked aroused . . . still hard, still flushed, still panting . . . even despite his state, he said nothing as Lestat crawled back to the edge of the bed and sat on its edge with hands clasped between his knees. Lestat stared down at the floorboards. He gnawed at his lip and picked at his fingernails, as he muttered:

“I know it’s no excuse, and if you want me to leave –”

“Of course I don’t want you to leave.”

“But you don’t want sex?”

Nicholas let loose a high-pitched cry. He fisted his hands tight into the sheets, until knuckles turned white and the thread-bare fabric threatened to tear, and his chest jerked in strange movements, caught between broken sobs and broken laughter. The sounds he emitted were almost inhuman, and just as incomprehensible, as he brought his legs to his chest. He threw his arms around them. He hugged them as if desperate for contact, while he buried his face into his knees, and soon the sobbing laughter stopped. Lestat strained to listen to him. 

“I could kill you sometimes,” sighed Nicholas.

“What have I done now?”

“Do you think the only reason a person could reject sex is due to . . . what . . . hatred?” Nicholas shook his head. “I love you, Lestat. _I love you_. It’s because I love you that I can’t have sex with you, because . . . because this isn’t love to you, is it? I mean, don’t get me wrong, you love me . . . in your own strange way you love me . . . you may have even fooled yourself to think you’re _in_ love with me, but -? You’re not. You’re in love with the idea of love.”

“Nicki, I do love –”

“No, Lestat. You can say the words, and you can do the deeds, but I _feel_ it every time we’re intimate and every time we’re alone together . . . I’m just a friend to you; I’m someone to help pass time, to share interests and gossip, and someone to help you as you help them. I’m not a ‘lover’, though, because you can’t fully _give_ yourself to me . . . you hold back . . .

“You spend your life dreaming of the perfect lover and perfect love, always bored as soon as you’ve entered a relationship, all because nothing lives up to the ideal . . . the grass is always greener and you always dream of your next conquest. You force yourself to stay with me; maybe you fear being alone, maybe I’m all that you can have, maybe I’m useful to you . . . I don’t know . . . I just know that you have your eyes on that tutor of yours. It’s him you love, not me.”

Nicholas turned. The mattress lay just beneath the window, allowing him to turn his gaze and press his forehead to the glass of the unopened pane, and – as the breeze blew in from the other side – it caught at his hair and moved it about his face. It cast him in a strange shadow, so that the singular tear disappeared and reappeared in quick succession. He bore a lopsided smile. It left him a grotesque caricature of his former self, while the sun caught him in a way that the moonlight often struck Louis, making him younger than his years, as he continued in a whisper:

“If Louis were to love you back, would you take him? You’ve never been one to yearn for family or children, but instead you’ve wanted freedom and travel . . . a handsome man that can offer you those things in abundance -? Hmm, why wouldn’t you take it? I don’t know how long it would take for you to get bored, or maybe he would forever keep your interest in some other way . . . some way that I can’t . . . I just know I don’t want to be second-best . . . your second-choice.”

“You make it sound like I feel _nothing_ for you, Nicki!”

“No, you feel _everything_ for me . . . as your best friend. That’s why I can’t be with you, Lestat, because I don’t want another friend! I want a partner, a lover . . . an _equal_. I love you too much to forget you, and I respect myself too much to stay with you. I think – I think we should go back to a non-physical relationship. I don’t think I can stand to be used anymore.”

Lestat stood. He took in jerky breaths, while he raised his hands before him. They trembled and paled, until his eyes lost focus and the world blurred, and only as the tears streamed down his cheeks did he realise that he was weeping . . . silently weeping. Lestat laughed. He laughed even as he cried, while he buried his face into his hands, and the world went dark around him, while he swayed from foot to foot, listening to the children playing in the streets.

He chanced a look over his shoulder. Nicholas was still staring absently out of the window, with his breath forming a light mist over the pane. Lestat struggled to control his racing heart, as it echoed an odd time that brought a dizzying array of colours about his vision, and fought to slow his breathing, even as the panted breaths sounded more obscene than any of their time spent in each other’s arms sharing in intimate touches. Lestat swallowed hard. He marched over to the mattress, before snatching at Nicholas’ chin and forcing his face back around. 

Nicholas opened his mouth to speak. Lestat stole a kiss. It was one technically perfect, with just the right combination of lips and tongue, and both angled their mouths with a burning familiarity, allowing Lestat to dominate the kiss and explore all of Nicholas. It brought no arousal. It was simply an act . . . one filled with skill, but devoid of passion. Lestat pulled lazily away, leaving Nicholas with a broken smile and tear-stained face, as he whispered:

“You don’t feel it, do you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” mumbled Lestat.

“Even a bad kiss with a good lover will feel like perfection,” said Nicholas. “While the perfect kiss with a bad lover will always feel like hell . . . this -? This feels like hell. It feels like you’re going through the motions, and I’m _letting_ you . . . _I’m letting you_!”

Nicholas shoved Lestat. It was hard and rough. It knocked Lestat back a few steps, leaving him open-mouthed and wide-eyed, and – touching at his chest with a trembling hand – he stumbled away from the bed, looking over Nicholas as one would a stranger. A curl of the lip was the only response, as Nicholas swung his feet down onto the ground. Nicholas flared his nostrils, while his arms wrapped like a vice around his torso, and his eyes were bloodshot and shimmered with tears, as he struggled to his feet. He hunched over, while he turned his gaze downward. 

“Go home, Lestat,” said Nicholas.

He marched over to the door, while sniffing as he went. He refused to meet Lestat’s eyes, even as he snatched at the cold metal of the handle, and – wrenching open the door – he pointed an unsteady finger to the staircase almost immediately outside. The bedroom door just adjacent was open, revealing a mess of clothes and fabrics as someone had evidently brought some work upstairs, but otherwise they were alone. Lestat stepped onto the small ‘landing’, as the customers laughed and gossiped below. It was a stark contrast to Nicholas’ sobs.

“Go be with the one that you want.”

Lestat turned with open mouth. He lifted a hand toward Nicholas, but Nicholas jerked back as if burned by the gesture, and his eyes – wide and trembling – looked over Lestat from head to toe, before finally screwing themselves shut tight enough to bring lines to his face. He half-laughed even as he stepped back into the room. The distance between them had never been greater, as the tears streamed down both sets of paling faces. Lestat made to speak again, but Nicholas cried out.

The door slammed fast in his face.

* * *

The candlelight provided very little assistance. A sole lamp sat in the centre of the table, deprived of the whale oil that his father considered too much a ‘luxury’, and instead a half-melted candle dripped wax all over the tabletop mere inches from Lestat. He angled the book towards it flame, as his index finger slowly moved syllable by syllable under each word. A selection of other books lay piled on the table to his side. He furrowed his brow.

It was cold in the old study, with a draught continually catching at the flame. It disturbed and distorted the light, making it dance across the yellowing pages, and soon his eyes grew strained and ached with a constant pressure, as they adjusted and readjusted to the changes. He leaned back on two legs of the wooden chair, while resting his feet on the tabletop. The book fell flat on his lap. He dropped a hand onto its leather cover with a sigh, before he stared emptily ahead towards the window that overlooked the woods, and his eyes watered with a threat of tears.

The door creaked open. He tensed. Lestat closed his eyes and focused on the footsteps; they were soft and slow, but with a steady pace and a heavy tread, and – recognising the owner – a loud gasp escaped him, while he dropped his chair back on all fours. He beamed brightly, as the door swung closed of its own accord. Lestat scrambled for a particular book, before he ramming it in the direction of the newcomer, and rushed out in an almost incoherent stream:

“Will you read this to me?”

Louis paused. He was mid-stride towards a chair beside Lestat, with his hand already wrapped around its back, and – with a rapid series of blinking – stared at Lestat with an eerie expression, before . . . finally . . . his expression softened. A bright smile broke over his features, as he eased himself into the chair and accepted the book handed to him. He angled his chair towards Lestat, who spun his chair around and straddled its back, and together they faced one another with equal smiles and blushes. Louis leaned back and folded his legs, as he teased:

“If I read _to_ you, what will you learn?”

“I would learn intonation, pacing, volume control . . .” Lestat winked. “Are they not good skills to learn? What is the point in learning to read, if I can’t even learn how to properly _speak_? I could be an excellent reader, but without the power of speech -? Alas, I’d never be able to deliver a speech from a podium or recite a soliloquy to an audience. Would you deprive me of those chances? I never thought I would have such a cruel master . . . please, humour me?”

“I think you have the power of speech down fine,” teased Louis.

“And my reading is improving, isn’t it? So why not a reward? Read to me.”

A warm and vibrant laugh escaped Louis. It was a rare sound, one usually lost to melancholy sighs or indifferent murmurs, and it brought a beautiful glow to his face, bringing alive his eyes in a way that they almost sparkled in the candlelight. He slowly opened the book in his hands, while he perused the contents with an almost inhuman speed. Lestat frowned. It was difficult to tell whether it was the speed of a fluent reader or something more, but he seemed almost to flick through the paper without even seemingly looking at the pages.

“This is a play by John Ford,” said Louis.

“I recognise some of the names . . . Annabella, Florio, Giovanni . . . most of the books that you would have me learn are English translations, but this -? This is something from France or Italy, isn’t it? My mother is from Italy. I’ve always dreamt of going one day, but Father refuses to let me out of his sight . . . well, so to speak. Could we read it?”

“This is a play, Lestat. It is not a story.”

“We could act it out together!”

“Not _this_ book. It is far more controversial than you realise. Your father explicitly said that he doesn’t want you in contact with inappropriate materials, as you’re too prone to fantasy and fancy, and a book about incest and murder -? It’s too much for one so young.”

Lestat snatched back the book. He stared hard the cover, as he squeezed it between his hands, but the words were barely legible to his mind . . . despite being to understand them individually bar one, they seemed to merge and mingle and move on the page, until they refused to form a coherent title. Lestat tossed it onto the tabletop. He slid his arms onto the back of the chair, before he rested his chin on them and stared downward. The light caught one of the silver buttons on Louis’ waistcoat, capturing his full attention, as he mumbled out:

“Why do you treat me like a child?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been my tutor for almost a year now! I’ll be eighteen next week, and a man for all intents and purposes . . . you still shield me from ‘bad’ books, you still refuse to socialise with me outside of lessons, and you still see me like I’m a little boy! I’ve studied hard. I’ve worked hard. I’ve done _all_ that I can to prove myself a man to you and yet –”

“You’re no man, Lestat.”

“I . . . _what_?”

“A man does not run away from his problems. A man does not disrespect his father or cling to his mother. A man _certainly_ doesn’t sleep with his best friend beneath an open window, or in the clearing of a forest, or steal kisses in the alcoves of the castle . . . a man would not put their reputation – even their _life_ – at risk like that. A man would realise that his tutor _knows_ he knows the content of this book, instead of trying to tease him and embarrass him.”

Louis sighed and leaned back. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a firm hold, while he muttered in a dialect almost alien to Lestat, before – finally – letting his hand fall fast and loose at his side, where it hung and swung lifelessly beside him. Lestat smirked. He leaned forward, as much as the back of the chair would allow. The candlelight burned low, casting shadows about his face, and he licked at his lips with a long and slow swipe, before jerking his head towards Louis. He whispered in a voice so low that it forced Louis to strain:

“You’ve been watching me.”

Louis paled. He locked eyes with Lestat. It was a bold gesture, one at odds with his paling skin and long hissing inhalation, and it brought further laughter from Lestat, who scooted his chair closer with the loud screech of wood on tiled floor. It forced Louis to move his legs further to the side, with the outside of his upper leg now pressed to Lestat’s knee. The silence between them was interrupted by the howling wolves. Lestat flinched. He grew white. Louis merely chuckled, still having not broken his stare, and finally moved away his gaze, as he lied:

“I do not know what you mean.”

“You’ve been watching me, Louis,” said Lestat. “You must have been! We always made sure to hide our physical union, at least before I called it a day and ended the relationship. It means you’ve been watching us . . . maybe even _enjoying_ the sight of us . . . well, each to their own, my friend. Now that I’m completely unattached, I’m free to occupy you instead.”

“I would not allow myself to be occupied by a boy who chases his dreams at the expense of others, and while I admire you and your growth . . . your intelligence, your passion, your creativity . . . I fear too much that you think only for yourself, even now.”

“You think me selfish?”

“I think . . . I think I would like to think the contrary.” Louis sighed. “I sometimes find myself tempted by you, more than I should given your role and my position, but to give that all up for a man that has given me no reason to believe that I am anything more than a distraction-? If I could see that you at least care for your conquests, maybe _then_ I could give into your advances.”

Louis swung his legs around, away from Lestat. He pushed back his chair and stood, before collecting some of the borrowed books into his arms, and – as Lestat struggled to turn in his awkward position – Louis stopped him with a raised finger. It was a simple gesture, but an effective one. He paused with a blush. Lestat struggled to control his racing heartbeat, as arousal and frustration mingled together in an infuriating blend. Louis moved back towards the door, balancing his books with perfect precision, and pressed down on the door handle. 

“I pray that you will tame your wild nature,” said Louis. “You are too much like Icarus, flying ever higher and higher to the sun, and I – . . . I cannot watch you fall, Lestat. If you wish to win a place in my heart, or even my bed, I need to know that I will not lose you . . .”

The door opened with a single hand. There was barely a jostle from the books, as he stood in the doorway with perfect posture and propped the door open with his foot, and his shoulders slumped slightly, while he faced Lestat with a softened expression. Lestat tilted his head and furrowed his brow, while his eyes moved between books and mentor, and – just before Louis slipped through the door into the darkness – a soft whisper followed:

“Be better, Lestat . . .”

* * *

Lestat sat alone in his bedroom. The pencil once sharpened was now blunt, while the vast piles of papers to his side spoke of words now lost, each one screwed up into a small heap, and – with a sigh – he awkwardly squeezed the wood between his fingertips. The lead struggled to move across the paper, as it made jerky and shaky letters somewhere between a child and man. A letter slowly began to form across the otherwise pristine page. Lestat smiled.

The candle beside him was almost extinguished from a lack of wax, as it worked its way down to the silver candelabrum, and instead sunlight crept in through the window to replace the light that was lost, as he practically pressed his nose to the paper. He carefully formed every word. He strove to put into sentences the paragraphs and paragraphs that formed in his mind, and yet nothing seemed to match the eloquence that strove to break through, as he carefully carved each letter with the lead. A sweat broke across his flushed face.

“Done,” whispered Lestat.

Lestat attempted to sign his name. It was more of an illegible line, with a scrawl that nearly brought tears to his eyes, as he pouted and compared it to the signature of his mentor . . . his friend . . . one that seemed to own the page and paint itself with an artistic flourish. Lestat bit into his lip, before he traced the signature underneath his name. Once the name ‘Louis de Pointe du Lac’ graced the paper, he carefully folded it into quarters and slid it into the envelope, which was sealed with wax and a seal. The address adorned the outside with the city printed bold:

_Paris._

* * *

Nicholas opened his mouth. It closed again. The movement was repeated over and over, as he stared down with wide-eyes at the money-bag that rested in both his hands . . . the weight of the _écu_ and _Louis d'or_ caused him to bounce the bag, as if somehow it might change or lessen to something that would wipe the ever-present awe from his expression. He squeezed at the leather and shifted the opening in the light, so the gold and silver would glisten in the sunlight.

The horse-and-cart stood not far from them. Its driver waited patiently, even with the cart filled with various winter vegetables ready for the nearby town, and his eyes kept locked ahead on the horizon, as if unaware of their conversation. A small suitcase sat on the cart, alongside a violin case that had seen better days. The sunrise was particularly beautiful, casting long shadows that extended far beyond the length of the cart itself, and soon the village would come alive, with the people milling about and making a life. Nicholas looked to Lestat and whispered:

“Where did you _get_ this, Lestat?”

Lestat shrugged. He winked. A frown passed over Nicholas, who shoved the bag hard against Lestat’s chest, but – with a sigh – Lestat simply pushed it back into his hands, forcing the fingers around the bag and letting them mould around the leather. The rising sun did little to dispel the cold chill, which brought goose-bumps to his flesh, and both men stood shivering with small clouds of steam expelling from their mouths, while Lestat forced a smile. He stepped back, too far for the money to be returned easily to him. He waved a hand and asked:

“Does it matter?”

“It does if it’s stolen!”

“Do you think so lowly of me that I’d _steal_?”

“You stole from your parents when you ran away with the actors.”

“It’s hardly _stealing_ when it’s a family fortune, and it’s _my_ family,” muttered Lestat. “Plus, the jewels belonged to my father, and it’s not as though _he_ can look upon them and enjoy them, and they turned out to be worthless anyway . . . anyway, if these coins belonged to my father, don’t you think he’d have used them by now to buy food and furs and candles for us?”

Lestat rolled his eyes. Nicholas unbuttoned his jacket, before sliding the money-bag into an inside pocket and buttoning the jacket once more with a scowl. The bag formed a noticeable bulge, one that would attract too much attention on the long road to Paris, and so Lestat slid his coat from his shoulders, before helping Nicholas into the oversized fabric. It perfectly hid the bulge, while also hiding his lithe and toned body from sight, and the dirty and old fabric was a far cry from his usual well-kept and more expensive fashion. It would hide him well.

“They’ll not recognise you in passing,” whispered Lestat. “You’ll wear a hat, won’t you? Your hair is too long, it might give you away . . . remember not to give yourself away until you’re in Paris; it’ll be too late then, you’ll be under the protection of Renaud.”

“Who even _is_ this Renaud? Is he merely a mention by those actors? Is he a passing comment by Louis? You would send me all the way to a city based on the merits of one letter . . . one letter that somehow was enough to get one man to play the role of a good Samaritan! Why would he even take me on? And – _again_ – where on Earth did you get this money, Lestat?”

“It’s from my mother.”

“Your mother?”

“Yes, my mother! What are you? A parrot?”

Lestat pinched the bridge of his nose. He placed a hand on his hip and turned, so that the far distant village was barely visible on the horizon, and – cursing the inevitable walk back – spun around and threw his hands in the air with a sigh. Nicholas bit into his lip. He cast an eye over to the cart-and-horse, where the driver stared ahead without a word. There was the occasional twitch of a head, betraying an eavesdropping nature, but he was paid well for his silence, and there was not a single word or sound from his person. Nicholas choked out:

“Lestat, I just –”

“My mother sold some jewels to pay for Louis to mentor me,” said Lestat. “It was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me, and I’ll cherish her gesture until the day I die, but Louis . . . I never realised, but he comes from new money. It was enough for him to invest in a plantation in the New World, and enough that he has never really needed the money given to him.”

“So _Louis_ gave you this money?”

“It – It’s more of a loan. I pointed out that he wasn’t using it, and I said I had a plan to do right by you and get you to a much better place . . . I asked to borrow it from him. In return, I’ve promised to help him hunt some hares and deer to give to the villagers. They’d usually pay good money, but he says I can consider him repaid when I’ve delivered enough that would have otherwise made up the debt . . . he’s a good heart; a _strange_ heart, but a good heart.

“I – I didn’t tell him my whole plan exactly, but . . . I learned enough to write a letter to the theatre owner in Paris, one that the troupe mentioned so long ago, and the man – Renaud – wrote back! I didn’t think that he would, but he did! I asked whether he was looking for a new entertainer, as I knew _the_ most amazing violinist, and he wants you to start right away!”

Lestat looked back to the horizon. The road from the village would lead a long path, one past several inns and farms and small settlements, and eventually there would come towns . . . cities . . . and even Paris herself. It was difficult to estimate the journey, but it would be far more time-consuming that cutting through the woods, and yet far safer by comparison. Lestat came towards Nicholas. He held those chilled cheeks between his hands, as he ran his fingers over flesh and memorised every inch, and he drew in a deep breath to find strength to speak.

“If I’m honest, my actions aren’t entirely altruistic. Louis failed to believe that I could put someone before myself . . . that I could be selfless . . . for a while I sulked and cursed and thought him wrong, but then I thought -! I thought that there was one area where I _had_ been selfish, which is in my relationship with you, and one area where I could do good . . .

“The hardest thing in the world is to let you go, Nicki! I do love you, no matter what you think, but maybe you were right . . . maybe I was never _in_ love with you. I – I clung to you as my closest friend, as someone who understood me and needed me and made this hell a little more bearable, and I always dreamed of running away with you, maybe starting a life together, but . . . I don’t know . . . I can’t keep you here, Nicki, not for my sake! I also can’t go with you . . .”

“Lestat . . .”

“I – I want you to chase your dreams and make them come true! I’ll tell your father that you’re heading towards Spain, make him follow the wrong roads and wrong paths, and Renaud will make sure that you can finally play your music as much as your heart yearns! I’ll come for you one day . . . I’ll perform on stage while you play, and we can be friends together in a city in which we will finally be free . . . free to be ourselves, free to do what we love . . .”

Nicholas smiled. It was soft and sincere, one that made his eyes sparkle in the shortening shadows, and he stepped ever closer to Lestat, until his hands were able to grab at his lapels and pulled Lestat flush against him. He pressed a chaste kiss to chapped lips. The touch between them lingered, neither willing to part and neither willing to go further, but soon the driver cleared his throat and sent both darting back away from one another. They blushed. They muttered excuses. Nicholas finally walked towards the cart and stopped just short.

He checked the contents of the small cart, before throwing an old blanket over them to hide the eye-catching violin . . . an item of luxury unusual to those in rural climes. Lestat winced. It was finally out of sight, but soon it would also be out of earshot, and those notes – those musical and magical notes, dancing through the air and consuming the senses – would belong to crowds of people and no longer be a gift exclusively to Lestat. Nicholas hummed an old tune, as he moved to the front seat and climbed onto the stained and cracked wood.

“Are you doing this to get rid of me?” Nicholas sighed. “I wish I knew whether you were doing this because you truly wanted me to be happy, or whether you think I’m an obstacle to what you really want, but at the same time . . . I can finally play? I can finally be a musician?”

“You have the letters and addresses, right? You have the money?”

Nicholas nodded.

“Then you can be whatever you want to be, Nicki. You can be _you_.”

The tears streamed down Lestat’s cheeks. He laughed and muttered his excuses . . . _‘the light is blinding me, I fear it’s making my eyes water’_. . . the world was distorted enough that he struggled to see through his pain, but clear enough that he saw Nicholas reach to him. The tears would once be kissed away by a soft pair of lips, but now they were wiped away with the back of a finger and brushed aside with a thumb. It was somehow just as intimate, even with the judgement eyes of the driver who strove to avoid their gaze. Lestat choked out:

“You don’t know how much I hate to say goodbye.”

Nicki cried through his laughter. He cupped Lestat’s cheek, while Lestat nuzzled back. The driver turned his head away, giving the illusion of privacy, and Nicholas pulled Lestat closer, just enough that he could lean down and press their foreheads together. They shared a breath. They shared a space. The tears streamed and merged into one, as they tasted them on lips and tongues, and both delivered a stream of kisses over and over to every inch of face within reach, until – breathless – they parted and separated. Nicholas sniffed and wiped at his face.

“Then come with me,” said Nicholas. “Come with me!”

“I can’t.” Lestat blinked back his tears. “I – I know you want more than I can give, and I really do feel something for him . . . something that I think could be more than just a crush . . . if I came with you, you’d expect me to forget about him and give myself to you. I _can’t_.”

“I want you to come with me as a _friend_ , Lestat. Nothing more.”

“And I want to prove myself to them! It’s not even just about Louis, or Mother, or whether I could or couldn’t run away with you . . . it’s about learning to read and hunt, doing the things that my father and brothers always _laughed_ about! I want to be able to walk tall and proud and show them . . . show them I’m a man . . . show them I never needed them; just . . . _show them_!”

Lestat clenched his fist, hard enough to leave crescent-shaped cuts on his palm. He took in fast and shallow breaths, holding back the adrenaline that threatened to consume him, but – before his anger could burst into rage – a pair of lips stole his in a tender kiss. This time it turned into something deeper, something borne from love . . . a lingering kiss with passion and intensity, but borne less from romantic love and from something deeper . . . something that no one could ever take from them. Nicholas pulled away with a broken smile, as he whispered:

“Come find me once you’ve proven your worth?”

Nicholas touched the arm of the driver. The man cracked the reins and moved the horse-and-cart, until both were rattling along the old road to the first village, where Nicholas would make his way on foot through a shortcut in the farms to a nearby town. It was a long journey, but Lestat made sure to watch every inch . . . every mile . . . until Nicholas was no longer in sight . . . even beyond that, until the sun began to set and the tears began to dry. Lestat whispered in turn:

“I swear . . .”


	6. Chapter 6

Lestat entered.

The door creaked open with a deafening volume. He winced. It closed slowly behind him, locking out the darkness of the encroaching night, and left him instead with the long shadows within the main hall of the castle. The raindrops glistened over his coat, while his blond hair slicked back to his scalp and reddened cheeks. Lestat shivered. The fabric of his clothes clung to him with every step and every movement, almost like a second skin or a strong adhesive.

In the distance, children laughed. It would be time for his nieces and nephews to sleep, and time for the adults to converse and mingle after a meal, but – unlike the others – Louis stepped slowly down the double staircase with an arm filled with books. Louis stopped on sight of Lestat. He sprinted down the last of the steps, as he awkwardly forced the books onto a side-table, and grabbed at an old cloak from a coat-rack, before he raced over to Lestat and draped the dry fabric over wet shoulders. He forced a smile, as he asked in a warm voice:

“Did the money I lent you help with -?”

Lestat winced. He pulled away from Louis; his hands held tightly to the fabric of the cloak, enough that his knuckles turned white, and his body rocked with barely restrained sobs, as he narrowed his eyes down on the floor. The dripping water dropped onto the tiles, staining them dark and spreading out like teardrops. He brought the edge of the fabric to his mouth, enough to hide the tremble to his lips . . . a tremble that soon distorted them into a frightening smile, even as his eyes blurred and head grew light. Louis stepped back to whisper:

“What exactly _did_ you use that money for, Lestat?”

The tears fell fast and free. They spilled from his blue eyes, warming his cheeks, while loud broken breaths wracked through his chest, and – with shaking hands – he struggled to hold the cloak to his body as he ran. He ran and ran. The staircase was nothing even to his weak legs and stumbling feet, and his vision blocked out everything except for the path to his room . . . the path to solitude free from shame . . . he fell . . . he tripped . . . he refused to stop. He barely heard the voice that called out to him . . . called out his name . . . called out beyond . . .

“Lestat? _Lestat_!”

Lestat slammed shut the door. The bedroom was cold and empty, and – with only a vaguest awareness of his surroundings – he staggered back towards the bed . . . the mattress . . . so unlike the one shared so many times with his friend . . . so free from memories, and yet -? The memories lingered. They danced across his vision until it was all he could see . . . memories of Nicholas. Lestat threw himself down onto the sheets. He buried his head into the pillow. He wept.

* * *

This bedroom was unlike others in the castle. It was windowless, allowing in no light other than a few scattered candles and a brand-new lantern filled with whale oil, and the high roof seemed to only add to the shadows and darkness around them. The walls were adored with rich tapestries, some of which moved in the draught from the wooden door. Despite the expensive décor, there was a lack of personal items . . . no trinkets, no ornaments . . . only portraits and books.

Louis sat alone at his desk, hunched over a letter. He moved his hand with a great speed, moving the pen with soft scratches across the paper, and soon vast lines of letters spread across the otherwise pure white, marking it like artwork across a canvas. Louis never lifted his head. He barely even acknowledged as Lestat walked inside, moving one leg before the other as if striding along an invisible lie, complete with outstretched arms, and – despite his childish game of walking the cracks of the tiles – Lestat remained quiet and strode toward the bed.

The duvets and quilts were a far cry from basic furs and threadbare sheets, and the mattress itself seemed soft and even with a supportive resistance when he sat on its surface. Lestat placed a handful of papers down beside him, previously scrunched and clenched in one hand, and ran his fingers through his blond locks to smooth through tangles from a difficult few nights. He looked back to Louis, who continued to scrawl before a small portrait of a young woman.

“Your room always surprise me,” said Lestat.

Louis sighed. He slid his pen back into the inkwell. The way his back straightened made him appear taller than Lestat, even as he sat in that antique chair, and his head lifted high with the grace and confidence that belonged only to a nobleman. He placed his letter to one side, where the ink would have time to dry. He stared ahead at the brick wall. The silence between them was broken only by the whistling draught beneath the door, along with the hammering of rain upon the roof, and Louis let loose a second – more defeated – sigh, as he mumbled:

“How often do you sneak in here?”

“Enough to know you rarely sleep here,” said Lestat. “Enough to know that, when you do, it’s always during the day and you sleep like the dead . . . it fascinates me that you picked the room without windows in which to sleep, almost as if you shun the sunlight.”

“I have sensitive eyesight. The bright sun here disturbs me.”

“You come from Paris, right? I’d imagine they get about as much sun as anyone else.”

“Oh, _more_ ,” teased Louis. “The city is almost aflame with light. There are candles everywhere, and oil lamps to fill every corner, and the people are so passionate and ambitious, enough that they seem to glow with a light of their own . . . of course, their light could never compare with your beaming smile that brightens my night. Are you feeling like smiling again?”

The smile that Lestat wore faltered. It only returned when Louis turned around, with a smile in turn, and his green eyes glittering in the low light, but with a strange focus that was unlike anyone else within the castle. The darkness held no effect on him; even through the shadows, he discerned movement and expressions as well as – if not better – than any other man during the daylight hours. Lestat blushed, as he looked away from Louis. He stared down at his hands, which trembled on his lap, and – with a deep breath – clenched them until they stilled. 

“I never thought I’d miss him so much,” whispered Lestat.

A sigh fell from Louis, until Lestat thought it would be his only response . . . sighs upon sighs upon sighs . . . soon the sigh turned into a low hum, as Louis stood with a creak from his chair, and came over to sit at some distance from Lestat on the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight, forcing Lestat a little closer. They were mere inches apart, so close that the warmth from one mingled with the cold of the other, and Lestat half-smiled to see the faintest trace of a blush on those chiselled and ivory-coloured cheeks. Louis licked at his lips and said:

“Your father mentioned that Nicholas had run away.”

“I gave him the money to make his dream come true.” Lestat winced. “I will pay you back as promised, and I’m glad that he’s finally free from this – this – this _hell_ . . . still, a petty part of me is jealous, and the selfish part of me wishes he’d never left me alone here.”

Lestat looked to the portrait on the desk. It was small and still bright, not aged by daylight or time, and the woman bore a striking resemblance to Louis, enough that she may have been a mother or sister . . . a beloved that even a stoic could not hide. Lestat smiled. The sister in Paris, or perhaps the New World . . . someone loved, someone out of reach . . . Louis sat beside him alone, yet not alone, and at peace, yet also in unrest. Lestat let loose a long exhale, one staggered and broken, and proceeded to nudge Louis with his elbow, as he said with a wink:

“Anyway, I’ve finished the work you set me.”

“You did? Let me see!”

Lestat reached for the crumpled papers, before handing them to Louis. Louis took them into his hands, before flicking through the pages with such speed that it may have seemed dismissive from any other man, but – from Louis – it was merely a preternaturally quick eye that absorbed every word despite its flickering movements. The words that had taken hours to write were consumed in seconds, and yet the great effort was worth everything for the smile they brought to those beautiful lips. Louis turned to him and said with great sincerity:

“This is very good, Lestat.”

“Then can I ask you something, Louis?”

“Anything,” said Louis.

“Why do you always seem so . . . I don’t know . . . _conflicted_ around me?” Lestat laughed. “I find there are times like now, when you’re so patient and natural and open with me, and then there are times where it’s as if I frighten you, as if you don’t know how to act around me. Why did you call me an ‘Icarus’? Why do you seem to – to . . . to _hold back_ around me?”

The bed creaked as Louis stood. He placed his face within his hands. He took several deep breaths, each one a hiss between his fingers, and finally pulled them back enough to look at his hands, staring at them as if they belonged to another. The expression upon his face was contorted and cold, something borne from a nightmare or like one in the midst of a nightmare, and finally – with a strange laugh – he fisted his hands and stared up at the ceiling, fixing his eyes on nothing and everything, until they finally closed on something only he could see, as he whispered:

“You remind me of someone, Lestat.”

“Oh? Who? An old lover?”

“No . . . my brother.”

Louis sat again. It was a slow and calculated movement, robotic and mechanical in nature, and he sat with his back rigid and taut, as if pressed against the back of a chair. He stared ahead with unfocused eyes, ones red with unshed tears. Lestat fell silent. The racing of his heart pounded out a steady beat, one that threatened to pierce the quiet of the room, and his teeth dug deep into his lower lip, as he toyed at the sheets with his fingers. He chanced a few glances to Louis, who pressed his thumbs to his eyes to stem back the tears, before finally finding strength to speak.

“His name was Paul,” said Louis in a cold voice. “I adored him. He was the youngest of us three siblings, but perhaps the most vibrant and creative and passionate. Like you did for a short while, he dreamed of a monastic life in devotion to god and others. I actually built him an oratory on our property, just so he could have a space to pray and meditate. He loved it.

“If I had known what humouring him would have led to -?” Louis swallowed. “He began to speak of visions . . . he would see the saints and angels, until he listened to no one but these figures that only appeared to him and only ever in private. I would debate to myself whether he was completely mad or a total conman. He spent hours and hours every day in the oratory, until he stopped sleeping and eating or even seeing other people, and I – . . . I was afraid.

“A part of me wonders now if it was simply egotism. I believed in god, the saints, the virgin . . . if you had told me of a man that had seen these apparitions in visions, speaking the words of the Lord to the people, I would have believed you. Why, then, did I not believe Paul? I think it was because it was too close to home. It was _my_ brother. What could _my_ brother know of saints? What connection had he to God? No, I could not believe it. I would not.

“He came to me one day. He said that the Virgin Mary had told him that I must sell all our land and property, so that he could become a missionary and spread the word of God, and I -? I laughed at him. I laughed at his dreams, the way that your family laugh at yours. I called him delusional. I said that his little games had gone too far, and then I did the unthinkable.”

Louis crumpled. He collapsed forward and buried his head in his hands, while he took in deep and gasping breaths, and – through it all – his chest was wracked with barely contained sobs . . . sobs that mingled with laughter to create a heinous and inhuman sound. The tears were hidden behind fingers. The fingers were hidden behind hair. He quickly grabbed at a handkerchief from his pocket, before wiping and smearing his tears across his cheeks. It took time to wipe them fully away, removing all evidence of their existence, before he could finally choke out:

“I threatened to tear down the oratory.”

Lestat opened his mouth to speak. He stopped. The sniffs and sobs continued, even after the tears had longed finished, and eventually Louis threw himself back, bracing his weight on his hands that pressed hard onto the mattress. Lestat slid slightly closer, as he reached towards a broad shoulder with an unsteady hand. He paused. The hand stopped a mere inch from the expensive fabric, before finding confidence to make contact, and his fingers gave a gentle squeeze to the toned muscle. Louis placed his hand over Lestat’s, as he nodded in acknowledgement.

“I can understand your father,” said Louis. “He acts with a heavy hand in hopes of protecting you, just as I did to protect my brother . . . in that instant, I thought: ‘ _if I tear down the oratory, forbid him from his worship, it will force him back into normalcy. It will save him’_. All it did was devastate him to his core . . . it _frightened_ him . . . in that moment, I stole away his world, so that he had nothing left to love. His passion was ripped from his grasp. He was broken.”

“I know how that feels . . .”

“He stormed out of the house in tears. I saw him throw open the glass doors to the patio; they overlooked the stone staircase, one that lead to the gardens and oratory, and it was there – on the very top – he stood and stared upward at the skies . . . he smiled. It was almost beautiful, as if his saints were providing him some comfort, but then . . . he fell . . . _he fell_ . . .”

The rain continued to pound from above. It struck hard at the tiles, before trickling down with a rush of water, and the combined sounds broke through the quiet between them, providing a momentary distraction from the otherwise unbearable silence. Louis forced slow and deep breaths, while Lestat slid his fingers down the arm and rested them on his thigh. It was a chaste, yet intimate, gesture. Louis dropped down onto the bed, with his hair billowed out around him like a halo, and his green eyes stared glassy and emptily upwards.

“It was as if he were pulled by an unseen force,” said Louis. “It was as if someone has pushed him, even, but ultimately he stood there alone . . . if anything caused him to fall, it was too quick for the human eye, and I could never prove any malevolent force. In the end he was simply alive one moment, and a stain at the bottom of the staircase the next . . . there . . . _gone_ . . .

“I suspect that my Mother and Sister blamed me. They would ask me over and over what was said between us, why I never chased after him, what it was he saw in the skies . . . it got to a point where I started to blame myself. What if I had humoured him? What if I had given into his demands? What if I had believed him? I fell into despair. I nearly killed myself, but in the end it was the doctor that nearly killed me . . . he let my blood to let out my melancholy . . .”

“You – You didn’t kill yourself, though, and you survived the doctor . . .”

“Very astute,” teased Louis. “In any case, I think this why you make me afraid. I see in you the same passion and vibrancy that existed in my brother, but I also see where a doggish determination to follow one’s dream ultimately leads . . . I cannot lose another person! At the same time, I find myself drawn to you; I lost my dreams, lost my ability to hope, lost all wants and wishes . . . I go by every day longing for an end to my guilt and shame and grief, but you -?”

Lestat squeezed at the thigh. He took in a deep breath and lay down beside Louis, as he stared up at the ceiling with equally unfocused eyes, and – with a lazy and weak movement – reached up towards the exposed beams that lay beneath the roof. The fingertips looked like they could almost touch against wood from the strange angle, but ultimately they met nothing and fell limp and loose at his side with a heavy thud. He lay next to Louis with his hands clasped on his stomach, while Louis kept his stretched out at his sides, and finally Lestat mumbled:

“That’s why you were so upset when I risked my life.”

“That and my feelings for you, yes.”

“Louis, you don’t have to fear for me,” said Lestat. “I might be wild and untameable, but I also know that I’m not your brother . . . call it ‘luck’, call it ‘fate’ . . . I just know I’m meant for something greater! I won’t leave you as your brother left you. I won’t die.”

“All mortals believe themselves immortal, Lestat . . . all of them.”

Louis dragged himself from his bed, with heavy and limp movements. It was as if he were being pulled by strings, forced by an unseen hand, and manhandled into a walk back to his desk, where he all but collapsed into his chair with a rattling of its legs against the floor. He slumped over his desk and pulled fresh paper toward him, before he scribbled out his next letter. Lestat continued to lie down on the sheets. He listened to the rain fall and the pen scrawl, and fought back his tears in turn, as he replayed the conversation over and over in his mind, until sleep found him.

* * *

The stables were quiet that evening; only the occasional howling of the wolves broke though the overall quiet, along with the cawing of nocturnal birds and the cries of foxes, and the branches of the trees rustled in the low breeze that brought a smile to Lestat. He almost missed the sound of footsteps, as he prepared the saddle for the horse. It stood elegant and regal in its stall. The eyes glistened in the low light, watching him with life and interest almost alien in the village.

Louis stood silently by the stable doors. The smile was a far cry from the tears still vivid in memory, and the expression was contagious enough to bring one to Lestat in turn, as the two locked eyes and held their gazes until Lestat was forced to look away with a blush. He returned to preparing his horse, while Louis made his way to the adjacent stall. The two said no words, as Louis saddled his steed and readied to ride, and yet occasional glances and smiles were delivered each time the other looked away, always stealing looks at every opportunity.

“Nicholas is doing well,” said Louis.

The words were said in a casual manner. Louis never even looked in his direction. Lestat – with foot already in stirrup – stumbled until he was forced back onto both feet, as he threw out his hands to grab at the wooden partition for balance. He leaned with open-mouth, as Louis climbed onto his horse with a subtle smirk. Louis adjusted the reins and harnesses, while a lock of black hair fell loose from its ribbon, and it caressed the side of his face with a gentle touch, drawing a soft sigh from Lestat that brought a chuckle from Louis. Lestat asked:

“He is? How do you know?”

Louis flicked the reins, as he brought the horse out of its stall. Lestat followed suit by climbing atop his horse, before quickly pulling it out of the stall, and – keeping just ahead of Louis – he looked over his shoulder with a smirk, gaining an eye-roll from his tutor. The quick racing of his heart lingered as one name ran over and over through his mind . . . _Nicholas_. He avoided Louis’ gaze, as he trotted the horse outside onto the field, and he cast watery eyes over the forest and fields, while forcing a bright smile. Louis followed after and said:

“I received a letter from a man named Renaud.”

“You – You did?”

“Indeed,” said Louis. “It seems that _someone_ co-signed a letter with my name. He said the letter was legible, but not to the usual standard of a nobleman, and – recognising my name – wrote to confirm that he was acting according to my wishes . . . apparently, I sought for him to hire a young musician to work in his theatre? I have no memory of that, but who else would sign my name except for me? I told him that he acted as he should. I thanked him.”

“And of Nicki -?”

“Nicholas is quite the success. He sometimes plays in the street for coins, to raise publicity for the theatre, and every day he plays and plays and plays . . . Renaud says – were it not for sleep and food – he may never stop playing his violin. You did right by him, Lestat. I may have had too low an opinion of you before, for which I am beyond sorry, but you have more than proved me wrong; you are capable of great acts of selflessness. I admire you.”

“You think better of my character, but what of my skills?” Lestat sighed. “I have proven that I am capable of maturity and selflessness, and I have proven I am capable of reading and writing to a proficient level, but what of my riding? Have I proven myself capable of that, too?”

Lestat wiped at his eyes. He sniffed. In the darkness, he looked over his shoulder. The starlight caught at his rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes, and he pulled his mouth into a smile that almost hid the tremble to his lip, as he winked towards Louis. He rode out at a moderate speed some distance away, before yanking at the reins and spinning around to face his mentor. He waved a hand wildly, with the distance hiding tears and grimaces, and proceeded to race once more across the fields at full gallop, as he choked out a croaky shout behind him:

“Catch me if you can, Louis!”

He yanked at the reins and galloped away. The wind caught at his hair, drying his tears, and he allowed the darkness to consume him, as Louis gave chase and called after him . . . his name mingled with the howls and caws and cries, until it was mere background noise. He took perfect posture upon the horse, controlling its movements with ease and skill, and rode and rode until the castle behind him was no longer in sight . . . no longer a concern . . . he rode until he could not.

* * *

“Lestat? Lestat!”

The voice echoed about the spiral staircase. It bellowed out about the tower, until it penetrated through the wooden door into the bedroom-cum-study, and Lestat smiled absently to himself, as he reclined back against the soft sheets and quilts and blankets. He stared up at the ceiling, where timbers stretched beneath the conical roof. A series of loud footsteps pounded out a quick beat upwards, while the voice continued to yell after him, and soon his name lost all meaning, as he closed his eyes and tuned out the sounds. Louis screamed out one last time:

“ _Lestat, answer me_!”

Lestat opened his eyes, as the door was flung open. It struck hard at the wall, where the doorknob knocked hard into the stone and left a small indent, and a rush of a cold draught burst over Lestat on the bed, chilling him through his thin layers of attire. He clasped his hands beneath his head, as he stared towards Louis and smirked. It took all his strength to refrain from a wave, as he pressed his lips into a tight line to hold back laughter, and waited for a response.

Louis looked possessed. The ribbon was loose from his hair, casting his shoulder-length black locks wild about his face, and his green eyes were narrowed into mere slits, while his lips pulled back into a ferocious snarl, one that bore his teeth on clear display. He was panting for breath, so much so that his chest heaved up and down beneath his waistcoat. Lestat licked at his lips. He raked his eyes slowly from head to foot, even as Louis marched to the side of the bed and thrust a finger a mere inch from his face. He jabbed it over and over in warning, as he screamed out.

“You goddamned fool! Have you learnt nothing?” Spit sprayed from his lips. “You should know better than to race off ahead of me like that! Why am I even here if you refuse to listen to me? I’m wasting my time tutoring you, clearly! Every time I think we’re making progress, you do something so foolish – so _childish_ – that I feel we’re back at square one. What is your excuse this time? I assume you have an excuse ready to hand. Do you have anything to say?”

“I would if you would let me get a word in edgewise.”

“Do not test my patience! It can only be stretched so far, Lestat.”

“You act as if you know me better than I know myself! I don’t need _you_ to tell me my limitations, or to set for me restrictions, and – frankly – I thought you better than that . . . the reason why I rebel against my father is because he thinks he knows best. It’s the arrogance that I loathe; he exerts a power for the sake of exerting power, one that I’m not allowed to question or debate, and my entire life is dictated until I’m no more than a prisoner. It’s unfair and unjust.

“My mother -? I prefer her rules. They are made with me in mind, and explained to me why they are in place, with room to alter them and room to compromise. It isn’t an act of dominance, but an act of love as she tries to protect me or teach me respect of self or others. You keep telling me not ride fast or far alone, as if I’m still that boy from last year . . . I’m not.”

“You still seem a boy to me, if you would put yourself at risk like that.”

“Don’t project _your_ fears onto me! You had a duty to protect your brother, _because_ he was your brother and under your protection, but I’m _not_ your charity case or sibling or even your charge . . . not really . . . you’re here as _I_ want you here, and I want you here because you’re everything that I could want. Until now, you saw me as a person . . . an _equal_. No one – not even my mother – ever saw me as an equal before . . . no one . . . only you!”

Lestat flung himself upright. He glared hard toward Louis, with his heart pounding loud in his chest, and every hissed breath burned at the back of his throat, as he fought to inhale despite the instinct to hold his breath and keep perfectly still. He watched with narrowed eyes as Louis paced. The older man buried his hands deep into his hair, while hunching forward with canines sharp and prominent in the darkness, and he refused to make eye contact with Lestat, even as Lestat swung around his feet and dropped them onto the stone floor. Lestat huffed.

“I love you and respect you, so I have obeyed your ‘rules’,” said Lestat. “Now I suggest a compromise, one that’s fair and made between two adults, and one borne from respect. I want you to respect me as I respect you: I will not put myself into danger, but _you_ must trust me that I will recognise what is dangerous and what is not. You must trust me, Louis!”

“Trust you? What reasons have you given me to trust you?”

“I have obeyed your rules. I have sacrificed so that those I love with flourish. I have studied hard to better myself and improve my prospects. I have refrained from dangerous acts. I have grown and evolved and improved, but still you see me as a boy . . . you hold back from me.”

“Is that why you did this? To get my attention?”

Lestat hummed, as he slowly stood. The white poet-shirt billowed as he rose from the mattress, and its open laces exposed the toned and muscled expanse of chest, a far cry from the almost emaciated youth that Louis first met over a year ago to date. He marched toward Louis. He stopped so close to his teacher that they were eye to eye, chest to chest . . . he felt the cold breath of his mentor on his cheek, coming out in harsh pants, and he half-chuckled as he took a hold of the chin and forced Louis to change the angle of his gaze. Louis spat:

“Well, you have my attention now.”

“I do,” said Lestat.

“Will you tell me how you managed to outride me? To hide from me?”

Lestat slid his hand along the jaw, before turning his fingers to brush along cheek. The skin was almost like snow or metal, something cold to the touch and firm beyond measure beneath its soft surface, like velvet over steel in texture and sensation. Louis sighed. The lips fell enough to hide away the canine teeth, and his head tilted to move closer to the hand, one which turned again and allowed him to nuzzle against a warm and callused palm. Lestat teased in a whisper:

“Are you shocked a mortal can hide from a vampire?”

Louis pulled back. The hand lingered in the air between them, until – with a murmur – Lestat placed it onto his shoulder instead, and massaged with a firm yet sensuous touch the tensed and solid muscle beneath the many layers. Louis stared at him with wide eyes and open mouth, while he stumbled and searched for words that seemed to elude him. The silence between them was punctuated with spluttered sounds, while Louis shook his head over and over, until he finally stilled by an index finger pushed to his lips. He blushed and spoke against the digit:

“How -? How did you know?”

“How could I not?” Lestat pulled back his hand. “I’m no fool, Louis. I may have a short attention span, and I may be wild and spontaneous, but I’m not as self-absorbed as you assume . . . I watch, I listen, and I _learn_. I remember, too. It’s my one talent . . . you can’t push people’s buttons, after all, unless you know them well enough to know where those buttons lay.”

“Even now –”

“Even now I’m telling you that I’m more than what you think . . . what you believe. I’m enough of a man that I understand the nature of my mentor, and enough of a man that I’m able to surpass my teacher in almost all areas . . . I’m enough of a man that I don’t need you, not really, at least not to hunt or read or write, but do you know what -? I might not need you, but I _want_ you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything . . . as my friend, my equal . . .”

Lestat leaned close. He brought their lips a mere millimetre apart, so close that it sent tingles through the sensitive flesh . . . he licked at them with the tip of his tongue . . . every breath was shared, as both men grew half-lidded and flushed. Lestat waited. He waited until Louis arched his back . . . until Louis moved into him, with chests flush against one another, and rested his hands on broad shoulders. He waited until that keening sound penetrated the bedroom. Finally, Lestat pressed an a lingering kiss to those surprisingly soft and plump lips with a smile.

“My _lover_ ,” whispered Lestat.

He pulled back to see dilated pupils and reddened cheeks. The smile brought lines to the corner of his eyes, betraying the depths of his emotion, and – unable to still his racing heart, unable to control the shiver to his limbs – he pressed lips back against that awaiting mouth. He pushed inside his tongue, where he tasted a strange metallic taste . . . _blood_ . . . still, it only added to his arousal and desire. This was a man that could overpower him, control him . . . _own him_ . . . yet here was this monstrously strong man lusting for him, wanting him like he wanted no other . . . 

Lestat was wanted . . . _needed._ The two tongues fought for dominance, as each mingled and danced, and lips moved in perfect time to one another, with only the very rare smack of lips echoing out about the small bedroom among gasps and pants and moans. Lestat kissed until there was no air left in his lungs, with his arousal straining at his trousers into a visible tent, and – wrenching back his head with a strangled gasp – found enough breath to pant out:

“It’s time you saw me as a man.”

He stepped back. He looked down. The bulge in Louis’ trousers betrayed arousal in turn, but one that was more impressive than what was felt upon his leg . . . Lestat swallowed hard. He wetted his lips and looked to Louis, straining to keep his hands at his sides, and – with a smirk – walked awkwardly towards the bedroom doors. He pretended not to see as Louis adjusted himself with a curse, while his own erection refused to die away. It took every ounce of strength to step through into the stairwell beyond, and he knew it would be a hard night . . . for both of them.


	7. Chapter 7

Lestat sat upon the windowsill. He held his hands over one ankle, as his foot rested on the stone, and the other dangled with a slight sway against the wall. The forests were almost black in the night, with a strange movement of their branches in the wind, and – as the leaves rustled and danced – the whole woodland came alive with a unique spirit. He half-closed his eyes, as he rested his head back against the wall with a sigh. The candlelight flickered about the interior.

A knock came at the door. Lestat half-turned his head towards the sounds, while Louis stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind him, and – with a smile – Lestat returned to his view of the forest, even as his heart beat a little quicker in his chest. A blush swept over his cheeks, as Louis came to sit down by his desk. A selection of books littered the desk, all belonging to Louis and yet dog-eared by Lestat, and his poster of the old troupe of players hung just above the wood, where it immortalised the names of old friends.

“I need your help with a letter,” said Louis.

Lestat spun around. He perched on the edge of the windowsill, with his hands clutched to the stone, and leaned forward almost enough to be on his feet, as he stared with wide-eyes toward Louis, with a smile that never ceased to leave his lips. The beating of his heart increased, while he sought to slow his racing breaths. Louis chuckled. He sorted the cluttered contents with a swift hand, before laying out various pieces of parchment on the wooden surface. The inkwell was pulled close. Lestat let loose a shuddered breath, as he whispered out in a quick voice:

“You need _my_ help with a letter?”

A low hum escaped Louis, who leaned back in the chair. He held his hands clasped in his lap, while he stared at the paper with a half-absent expression, and his nostrils flared with a heavy hiss of breath, before he pulled himself upright and grabbed at a pen. Lestat climbed from the windowsill. He walked through the bedroom and came behind Louis, where he pressed his hands to the arms of the chair, and leaned low enough that he could breathe deep the scent from Louis’ black locks. Louis tilted back his head, as he stared up into blue eyes and asked:

“Will you help me or not?”

“What is it you want to say? Who are you saying it to?”

“My mother wishes me to move home,” said Louis. “The plantation in the New World needs proper supervision, and my sister is planning to be wed to some gentleman or other, so she has asked for me to give her away. I’m unsure how to respond. There are a few loose ends in Paris that I’d wish to tie up before I leave, and I would need to sell my property there, too . . .”

“You basically want to write to ask for more time?” Lestat frowned. “I have to be honest, if you’re intent is to leave for Paris and then the New World -? Well, I’m not sure I’d want to help you write that kind of letter. I thought the last thing you’d do after our last talk was leave me.”

“Who said that I had any plans to leave you?”

Louis smirked. The smile brought a twinkle to his eyes. Lestat blushed and pulled back, just enough to give Louis room to lean back over his pages, and – silently – he pored over them with his pen swiftly swiping cursive letters across the page with great fluency, while Lestat could only step back with an opening and closing mouth lost for words. The words were hard to decipher, but the smile soon returned when Lestat noticed his name, only to fade again when it was followed with the word ‘brat’. He rolled his eyes and asked in a terse voice:

“So . . . you want me to leave _with_ you?”

A small nod came from Louis. It was barely noticeable, but it brought laughter to Lestat. The sound spilled from his lips, free and natural with great volume, and his hands twitched between the chair and self, as he shuffled from foot to foot, until – finally – he hugged at himself and jumped down onto the old mattress. A loud creak of the frame betrayed that it was close to the end of its life, but Lestat ignored the sound and threw himself back. He stretched out over the sheets, still smiling as he stared up at the ceiling, and continued to laugh even as he spoke:

“I knew you were still watching me! You _do_ still care about me.”

“I’ve not been watching you, Lestat.” Louis sighed. “I realised that you are entitled to your privacy, and also . . . you know where I am and you come to me. It seems somewhat foolish to watch from afar what one could experience up close. Do you believe yourself to be watched?”

“Ah, now you mention it, you _haven’t_ been watching me, have you?”

“I am too tired for games . . . do you want me to watch you?”

“I don’t know. Do you _want_ me to want you to watch me?”

“Lestat, I –”

A burst of laughter broke from Lestat. Louis paused with his pen over paper, as he pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a long intake of breath, and Lestat – throwing himself back into a sitting position – licked at his lips and strode over to Louis. He bent down and wrapped his arms around those broad shoulders, and pressed his lips close to a cold earlobe, where he let his breath warm the skin and send shivers down that now rigid spine. A soft chuckle reverberated out, as he toyed with the lapel on Louis’ jacket, and whispered with an almost purr:

“I should have known you weren’t watching me. It was obvious, really.”

“Obvious how, Lestat? Do enlighten me.”

“Well, if you _had_ been watching me, you’d have stopped me from hunting the wolves.”

Louis froze. He took in a long breath. Lestat slowly pulled back, allowing Louis room to stand from his chair and meet his eye, and the two men stared hard – neither moving – as they stood chest-to-chest and close enough to share a single breath. Louis curled his lips, as his breath stopped and his chest froze. He leaned ever closer into Lestat’s personal space, until foreheads touched and noses were barely parted, and he spat out in a low whisper: 

“You’ve been doing _what_?”

A cold expression swept over his face, replacing what was left of his humanity. He stepped forward, forcing Lestat to stumble back, and continued even as Lestat tripped over his feet and was forced to look behind him for foot placement. Lestat finally stopped when his back met against the stone wall, and Louis – with a primal and bestial snarl – slammed a hand flat against the wall beside his head. The smash of flesh on stone made Lestat wince, as he reiterated:

“I’ve been hunting the wolves.”

The bared canine teeth were sharp to a point. They caught the candlelight just right, making them impossibly white, and Lestat was certain that they could easily rend flesh from bone, if not able to snap a bone in two with a mere bite. Lestat licked at his lips, unable to take his eyes away from the snapping jaws that let loose a stream of growls. He hardened. The sheer power and dominance that Louis displayed was awe-inspiring, and yet spit flew from his mouth with every word he spoke, as he fisted Lestat’s shirt and held him upright on tiptoes. Louis screamed:

“I thought you were getting better! Maturing! Growing!”

“I also thought you said you’d trust me more.”

“How am I supposed to trust you when you act so irresponsibly? Tell me, Lestat!”

“How about because I’ve learned my limitations and to manage my expectations?” Lestat rolled his eyes. “How about because I haven’t once put myself in danger? How about because I’ve _been_ acting exactly as a man should, by doing my duty to my village and helping my community, and I’ve slowly – one by one – been freeing up the road to the capital through the woods?”

“You are _mortal_ , Lestat! You could die if you –”

“I’m mortal, yes, but that’s why I need to live life to its fullest! I could die contracting a disease from some innocent contact with another human, or I could be thrown from my horse and trampled underfoot, or I could just choke to death during dinner on a damned chunk of meat. I hated living here . . . trapped, overprotected . . . I won’t let you keep me a prisoner, either! You might give me a gilded cage, one made from love, but it’s still a cage, damn it.

“I’ve been taking the wolves out one at a time. I’ve been keeping distance, tracking their movements, and wearing protective layers. I plan to take out the whole wretched lot of them eventually, but for now the few are enough. Already, they’ve stopped coming into the village at night and stealing whatever they can find. I think they’re growing afraid of people.”

“Why are you doing this, Lestat?”

Lestat smiled. He lightly pushed at Louis’ shoulders. Louis fell back a few steps, with all strength and wrath sapped from his flesh, and every muscle seemed to sag, as if carrying the weight of the world alone in the cold bedroom. He turned his back on Lestat, as he swayed and staggered over to the window, and there – with choked breaths – he pressed his hands to the windowsill. Lestat stretched out his legs, before he walked to the chest at the foot of his bed and took out the rifle stowed away inside. He muttered out in a teasing tone:

“If you can think of other means to occupy my time, I _beg_ you to show me.”

He paused centre of the bedroom, as he cast his eyes over to his mentor. Louis continued to hunch over the windowsill, seemingly staring aimlessly down at the grounds below, and his body wracked with strange movements . . . something between sobbing and laughter. Lestat found enough strength to sigh, before he wandered over to the door and pushed down the handle with some force, and – biting his lip – turned to Louis to whisper out:

“Otherwise, let me do what I must . . .”

With that, Lestat took his rifle and fled the bedroom.

* * *

There was a distinct chill through the forest. It broke through his layers of clothes, delivering goose-bumps across his pale flesh, and every breath escaped him in a burst of steam, leaving silvery clouds trailing the air behind him. He crouched down in the shrubbery, where thorns and twigs caught at his baggy sleeves. The rifle remained a constant weight. It rested in his hands, as he aimed it ahead for the wolf almost camouflaged among the tree trunks.

The rest of the pack was at some distance, while his aim was appropriately locked onto the head, and all it would take was one shot . . . through the skull . . . it would be most humane, and there would always be someone in the village glad for the furs and meat. Lestat held his breath. He aimed with absolute precision and pulled the trigger, only to wince as the recoil struck a bruise against his shoulder. A low curse rang out. The bullet had aimed true, at least, striking directly between the eyes of the beast and laying it dead against the frost-bitten ground.

A howl echoed about the forest. It was followed by another . . . another and another . . . they called out in an eerie chorus, each one louder than the last, and each one ever closer to his position by the recently deceased wolf. Its blood steamed. Lestat slowly stood; each footstep cracked against the twigs and leaves underfoot, while the howls came in a chaotic cacophony so that it was impossible to tell when one started and one ended. He walked back to the path.

“Time to retreat,” whispered Lestat.

A blurred creature darted along his path. It was on all fours, with its yellowish eyes visible even in the darkness, and its dark teeth were sharp and exposed, with saliva dripping from the fangs on every snarl and growl and bark. Lestat took in a deep breath . . . _‘show no fear, keep slow and tall, no sharp movements’_. . . he eyed the path once again. The calculations ran quickly through his mind . . . distance, time, speed . . . if he needed to run, he could about make it . . .

Lestat walked backwards, keeping the wolf in sight. He raised his rifle and kept it locked in aim, while quickly darting his gaze between the trees. The other wolves were still some distance, and there was time to escape before they descended, but another shot – one more loud noise – might draw the whole lot down upon him. He tensed. The finger on the trigger threatened to pull prematurely, but somehow luck was on his side . . . it relaxed just before the bullet could escape the muzzle. Lestat picked up speed, before he spotted it . . . a shadow . . . a figure . . .

It was taller than the wolves . . . _two legs, upright_. . . it darted in and out of vision. Lestat struggled to keep it in sight, especially with the wolf slowly following him, unwilling to pounce without the weight of its pack in support, and yet still it stalked . . . steadily . . . slyly . . . while the shadowy figure moved with preternatural speed. Lestat – unable to keep his eyes on both wolf and person – let loose a foul stream of curses, before he did all that was possible: he ran. He ran until his legs ached and muscles strained, never daring to look behind.

The wolf gave chase in earnest. Its paws padded heavily along the leaves, kicking them up behind it like small cyclones of colour in the darkness, and its snarling jaws came close to wrenching tendons from muscle, as it nipped forever at Lestat’s ankles. He was breathless. A burst of adrenaline hit cold in his veins, forcing him beyond his limit at an unnatural speed, while the black figure kept easy time alongside him at some distance, and one thought came to Lestat:

_If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have been distracted . . . I’d have been fine._

“You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me!”

Lestat faulted. The voice was familiar . . . _Louis_. At last, the shadowy figure changed direction. It took an abrupt turn and lunged for Lestat, before it grabbed him with powerful and statuesque arms, and lifted him into a perfect bridal carry, without any struggle or hesitation. It whisked him away from the wolf . . . away from the woods . . . until wind blew wildly at his blond hair, and scratched at his eyes until they were forced closed. It was as if he were flying.

The castle soon loomed into view. It was tall and unfocused, with his eyes struggling against the cold wind, and yet – even as he fought to see, fought to hear – it was the change of incline and the change of gravity that he noticed first . . . noticed above all else. Louis was running along the wall of the castle. _He was running along the wall_. Lestat was full weight against that chest, where any turn of his head had him staring down at the castle grounds . . . grounds that steadily grew further and further away . . . they were climbing the tower . . . heading to the window . . .

It was Louis’ room this time, where they would be alone. The remote location would mean nothing would be heard or seen by the rest of the family, and no one could come to his aid should he scream or cry or weep . . . they bounded through the window. The rifle was tossed haphazardly to the floor, while Lestat was thrown onto the mattress. It was a violent throw, without any kindness or patience, and matched only by a billowing voice that screamed:

“You could have died, you buffoon!”

The anger seeped out of every pore. Louis marched towards the bed, finally in full focus, and clad entirely in black and dark green, so that it was no wonder that he merged like a spectre into the night . . . into the forest . . . Lestat scrambled back with a rapidly increasing heartbeat, while he stumbled over half-formed words and apologies. A pair of hands grabbed at his ankles. They yanked him back down the bed until his legs were on either side of Louis.

Lestat huffed. He made to sit upright, but a harsh hand shoved him down. He made to rise again. The hand shoved him again. He was flat on his back, with Louis looming over him, and the spread fingers pressed hard down on his chest, keeping him fixed in place with an indomitable power that forced Lestat into a submissive state. He gazed up with wide-eyes, while Louis snarled down at him with that face contorted into that of a man possessed. Lestat – half-hard, half-enraged – glared daggers into Louis and drew in a heaving breath.

“Let me go,” screamed Lestat.

“Do you know what danger you’re putting yourself in?” Louis spat. “You could have died! This isn’t a game . . . you can’t sneak away at night as if this was a mere shooting range. You’re putting your life at risk every time you come out here, and for what -? Tell me! What can you possibly get out of killing this damn pack of wild animals? Fame? Glory?”

“You think me so shallow?”

“I think you so selfish and short-sighted that I don’t see what else it could be!”

“That’s exactly _it_ , Louis! You don’t see! You see in me exactly what you _want_ to see, and not the man that I’ve become or the adult you helped to create. I was in complete control of that situation, unlike the boy you used to know, and _still_ you drag me away, as if I were a mere child underneath your thumb . . . I am _not_ under your control, and you do _not_ own me!”

Lestat wrenched away the hand. There was no resistance from Louis, who allowed the gesture without complaint, and Lestat crawled up onto the bed, before he dropped his head down onto the pillows and cushions. He pulled at the strings of his shirt and buttons of his trousers, loosening his clothes to allow for breath . . . air . . . space . . . drawing in gulping breaths, he ripped off his boots and tossed them across the bedroom. They collided with a bang against the door, drawing a snarling cry from Louis, who threw his hands high and wrung them into fists.

“I will not see you throw your life away,” hissed Louis.

“And I refuse to let life pass me by without having achieved anything!” Lestat rolled his eyes. “I won’t simply survive . . . I won’t watch people having adventures and romances and travels, all while being wrapped up in a nice protective room, just so you have something pretty to look at!”

“I’m not doing this for myself, Lestat, I am –”

“Well, you’re certainly not doing it for me! I’m a man now, and as a man I demand to be treated with respect and seen as my own person. I’m not the pupil that you need to protect, or the sibling that you need to keep safe . . . I’m the man that _loves_ you and _wants_ you, but – more than that – that has finally come to love himself and want the respect that’s due to him!”

Lestat grabbed at the hem of his shirt. It came off overhead, before being tossed down on the floor, and quickly his trousers followed suit, as they were dropped unceremoniously onto the ground with a soft thud. Louis blushed. He stared wide-eyed and made to speak, but Lestat – tears in his eyes, face paled – lifted a leg and pointed to a purple keloid scar . . . he followed by indicating a scar across his buttock with a trembling hand, and then a silvery one on his elbow, and then another and another. The tears spilled hot and fresh, as he choked out bitterly:

“Do you see these scars, do you?”

“Lestat, you don’t have to –”

“This one is from where the wolf bit me when you first saved me. This one is from where my father caned me too hard when I ran away with the troupe. This one is from when I fell from the window when trying not to get caught making love with Nicholas, and this one . . . this one is from where I tried to commit suicide after I first ran away and before I met you . . .”

“Lestat . . .”

“You may think me a boy, but this is a man’s body. These are the muscles of a man, and these are the hair of a man, and these are the _scars_ of a man . . . they map out a history on my flesh, telling a story of years _lived_. I lived, Louis. I lived and these scars are proof!”

Lestat fell back on the sheets. There was no shame. He let his legs fall limp, while one arm rested across his chest and the other above his head, and there he lay . . . exposed . . . every inch of flesh available to hungry and furious eyes, with every scar and bruised on show. Each beat of his heart pounded against his chest, beating out a dangerous rhythm. He fought for breath. Every nerve was aflame, every muscle was taut, and his jaw ached from how he clenched it shut, and his words – when finally spoken – were a barely audible whisper that mumbled out:

“If I can take out the wolves, my father will have to respect me . . . ”

“Oh, so you’re man enough to defeat a pack of wolves?” Louis laughed. “Do you really think you could kill and cull them all? Do you know how many wolves are out there? How many packs? You alone are just one person. You’re putting yourself in danger over a pipe-dream!”

“I know what I can handle! I can handle anything you throw at me! I have learned to read and write, and I’ve learned to hunt and ride, and I’ve even learned your true identity. I’ve learned and learned and learned, but what good is learning if you can’t apply what you’ve learned to life? I’m man enough to handle the wolves, just as I’m man enough to handle you!”

A scream broke from Louis. It was exasperated and pained, with his hands raised to the ceiling as if asking – _begging_ – for God to take mercy upon him . . . his face contorted, while his green eyes shone with red and unshed tears, and the sound was so primal that it cut through Lestat to his core. A cold white sweat broke over his skin. He watched as Louis raged. Finally, screams turned to tears, as blood ran down over his cheeks, and the red marks left proof of the raw emotion coursing through his veins. Louis pointed a shaking hand to Lestat.

“Prove it,” spat Louis.

Lestat took in a staggered breath. He pushed himself further up the mattress, as his eyes locked onto the looming and dangerous figure of Louis that towered at the foot of the bed. Lestat slid a hand upward, where it wrapped around a spindle of the headboard, and partially raised one leg in a mock seductive manner, with his foot creasing the quilts as it went. A tooth pressed hard into his lip, as Louis unbuttoned his waistcoat and pulled it off along with his shirt.

He stood bare-chested, but a far cry from that of Nicholas. This was the chest of a man; there was a smattering of black hairs, and his erect nipples that pleaded to be touched, and it heaved up and down as if to emphasise the toned muscles of his stomach. The pupils of his green eyes were blown wide, while a heavy sweat broke across his skin. He stood still. It left Lestat with a pinprick sensation, as every limb twisted and writhed, unsure whether to run in self-preservation or splay themselves wide to provide further temptation. He held tighter to the spindle.

Louis climbed onto the mattress. It dipped under his weight, as he crawled along the quilts, and he stopped only when he was on all four above Lestat, with his eyes glaring down with a dark intensity and his lips curled into a snarl. Louis slammed down a hand. It collided with the pillow just an inch from Lestat’s head, pulling at his blond locks. Lestat winced. He tried to roll his head, with adrenaline coursing through every vein, but the fist kept him locked in place.

“Louis, you’re scaring me,” said Lestat.

Louis leaned down, close enough to share a single breath. It brought a smile to Lestat, who licked at his parted lips and fluttered his long eyelashes, and his breath arched even as his hand slid from the spindle of the headrest, before coming to rest against the toned muscles of an almost androgynous form. He let his fingers slide down . . . down . . . _down_ . . . until they came to rest over a barely concealed erection that was hard against his palm.

It took time to slide down the unbuttoned trousers. There was a tremble to his hands, as if this were his first time seeing another member, and – with spread legs – he used his feet to pull down the trousers to Louis’ ankles, before Louis took over and kicked them off the mattress. It freed a member of impressive length, even if it was far from an impressive girth. The long shaft held a beautiful curve, as if perfectly designed for a human hand or a willing mouth, and Lestat gasped to see how it wept from its leaking tip. He moaned and spread his legs wider.

Lestat took it into his hand. Louis rocked into the firm grip; a soft thumb dipped into his slit, while the hand twisted a little on every upward stroke. The pre-come streamed down his foreskin at an astounding rate. A low groan escaped him, as Lestat milked him and moved his fingers in a rhythmic motion one after the other, and soon Lestat used his cup a pair of hefty testicles, sending shivers running through Louis’ spine, as he pressed kisses to Lestat’s neck.

“You are a liar, Lestat,” gasped Louis.

“Oh? Am I now?”

“You would never be afraid of me . . . _never_.”

Lestat finally let go of the member, while Louis ran his hands over every inch of flesh. He seemed to memorise every bruise, every mole, and every stretch-mark . . . he would whisper incoherently . . . _‘perfect’, ‘beautiful’_ . . . the skin of Louis could have passed as porcelain in the candlelight. Louis looked down to Lestat, whose member stood out thick and long, with a vein throbbing along the underside, and with a trimmed set of blonde hair framing his length.

“You’re truly a prince,” whispered Louis. “My brat prince.”

He leaned down to take an erect nipple into his mouth. Lestat cried. He arched his back and wrapped his legs tightly around that svelte waist, and his fingers buried themselves deep into black hair, which he held tightly onto with all his might. A few strands came loose in his grip. He was flushed with desire. He dug the heels of his feet beneath ripe and round buttocks, until their members were pressed flush to one another, slick and leaking and naturally lubricated, and meanwhile Louis toyed and teased at his nipple with a miraculous expertise.

The small nub was trapped between teeth and tongue, where Louis alternated between almost painful bites and soothing licks, and sometimes he would suckle and others flick at it with great speed, and all the while – as he forced great pleasure on Lestat – he would use his free hand to twist and tweak and rub at the other nipple. Lestat panted. He mewled. The shaft of his erection throbbed, as he almost wept with aroused tears, and yet there was no reprieve . . . as soon as Louis was done, he would switch mouth and hand and work on the other nipple.

Lestat was unable to endure more. He mumbled out a broken: _‘please’_. Louis took mercy; he pulled himself away to press kissed along neck and jaw, before finally settling on a ripe set of lips and kissing Lestat with a burning passion. The kiss was clumsy, as if it were Louis’ first. The constant clicking of teeth on teeth, along with small slurping noises, was almost a turn-off to Lestat, and yet . . . he was passionate . . . _wild_ . . . as well as a very quick learner.

“Louis,” gasped Lestat. “Louis, it – it’s too good . . .”

A tongue silenced him, as it slid inside his mouth. The invading organ sent a shiver through Lestat, who bucked against Louis and groaned, and soon their tongues were dancing with one another, toying and playing with an almost familiar intimacy, and lips moved in perfect synchronicity, as they kissed over and over and over. Lestat grabbed at those buttocks. He forced Louis impossibly close against him, while fondling the two globes, and moaned into the kiss that did little to muffle the sounds. He practically sobbed, as Louis pulled back with a string of saliva connecting their mouths and breaking between them. He begged for more like a mantra.

“Do you still want this?” Louis asked. “Or have you tasted enough?”

“I – I want it . . . I want you . . . in-inside me . . . please?”

Louis slid his hands beneath the pillows. He retrieved what seemed to be a small glass vial, one filled with an unidentified liquid, and – pulling out the stopper with his teeth – poured the clear liquid over the fingers of his left hand. The fingers moved over and around one another, as he made sure they were fully coated and warmed, and slowly – carefully – they were placed between two waiting cheeks, touching where Lestat had never been touched before. A digit ran over his hole, making it twitch as Lestat gasped and arched his back. It stroked again.

The fingers ran in strange circles around the rim, as if teasing or tempting him, and soon it started to press . . . to apply force . . . as it worked its way in to the first knuckle, following the natural curves of his body and stroking his soft inner walls. Lestat tensed. A whispered order fell from Louis’ lips: _‘relax, push out’_. It took several hissed breaths for Lestat to comply, as the finger finally slid in to the hilt. The first inch was surprisingly the hardest, but the rest seemed to slip inside without any resistance, and it felt strange inside him . . . good . . . foreign . . .

“Lestat,” said Louis. “Have you done this before with Nicholas?”

He pushed inside a second finger. The sensation was unlike anything ever before experienced, with what could only be described as a ‘reverse fullness’, as if – instead of an exit of waste – there was an entry of something far more . . . _wanted_. The fingers made a scissor-motion, while the index finger made a come-hither motion to strike at a fleshy mound inside of him, and the please – _oh God, the pleasure_ – was so intense that his eyes rolled into the back of his head, while his hands clawed at the sheets. He bucked into that hand, as he spat out:

“Don’t mention him, you fool! Not now!”

“I need to know if you’ve –”

“I’m no blushing virgin, no,” said Lestat. “I fucked him. I fucked the actress. Has anyone ever fucked me? Well, no, unless you count the times life has fucked me over. I _know_ what anal sex entails, and I _know_ it can be messy and sometimes uncomfortable, but I trust you and I also know how fucking amazing it can be when done right, so what are you waiting for? _Fuck me_!”

Louis removed his fingers. There was a terrible emptiness that followed, as his inner walls clenched around non-existent digits, but – even as he moaned and mewled – Louis was using what was left of the oil to coat his hard member. The length seemed all the longer with the expert hand coaxing out pre-come from its slit, and Louis made delicious expressions and sound as he slicked his shaft, all the while bucking into his hand from desperate desire. Lestat licked at his lips, as he grabbed and pulled at the sheets, unable to keep steady and still. Louis hissed out:

“I want to make you come, Lestat. I want to make this last . . . maybe not this round, but the next one and the one after. I’m going to fuck you all night long; you’re going to be so thoroughly fucked that you’ll be unable to do anything but moan and smile like a fool. I want to finger you, suck you stroke you . . . I want to make you come and grow and again . . .”

“N-No dirty talk. I’m – I’m close enough as it stands.”

“Believe me, that wasn’t dirty talk.”

Louis chuckled, as he aimed his cock for the waiting hole. The head pressed against some resistance, enough that Lestat was unsure it would ever fit, but – with a stinging and burning sensation – it pushed into him with a small ‘popping’ sensation. Louis stilled. It was uncomfortable, slightly painful, enough that Lestat hissed and gripped at the sheets . . . Louis merely hummed and pulled out his erection, leaving Lestat alone . . . empty . . . confused . . .

He opened his mouth to beg for Louis to continue, but Louis was simply slicked his cock again, so as to recoat it and better prepare it for use, and his wet fingers pushed excess lubrication deep inside Lestat, before the member returned. This time, there was no popping sensation. Lestat knew what to expect, as such his walls were far less clenched, and the member – properly lubricated – slid in with exceptional ease once past that first inch or two. It pushed in right to the base, filling him to absolute completion, and bringing with it a new-type of pleasure.

Lestat arched his back. He threw his hands to the headboard. The fingers clenched against spindles until knuckles turned white, and his mouth fell open into a wide ‘O’ shape, as his eyes screwed tightly closed and cheeks flushed crimson. It was beyond words . . . there was a certain fullness, one comfortable and intimate, but also a delicious friction that pushed against something inside of him . . . it had him seeing white, forcing his erection to twitch. They were joined together. They were doing something he had done with no one else.

Black pubic hair tickled against his buttocks, while heavy testicles were warm against his lower cheeks, and – against all else – it was the one memory that stayed with him: _warm, malleable, and a constant pressure._ He arched his back until he feared that it might snap. The cock inside was uncomfortable at the new angle, but Louis adjusted by bending low and wrapping his arms around Lestat to keep the angle just right . . . _just perfect_ . . . he kissed at the exposed neck.

“You feel so tight around me,” gasped Louis.

“You seem surprised,” laughed Lestat.

Lestat clenched his inner walls. The pleasure was unreal, with a pressure both hard and soft inside of him, and he craved more . . . friction, movement . . . _pounding_ . . . Louis cried out, hugging him so tightly that he feared his ribcage would bruise. A pair of sharp teeth grazed his neck, drawing small pinpricks of blood. The cock inside him throbbed. He bucked up against it, while Louis half-kissed and half-nibbled against his neck, all while mewling and moaning like a whore through a brothel window. Lestat clenched again and asked through laughter:

“Tell me, am I _your_ first?”

Lestat buried a hand deep into Louis’ hair. He pulled hard at the black locks, forcing lips away from neck, and devoured him with a passionate kiss, one that brought devilish cries and small bucking motions from Louis. There was a faint taste of iron as tongues entwined, and Lestat raked his hands down Louis’ back . . . just enough to leave red welts, but not enough to break skin . . . marking him . . . marking him as _Lestat’s_. They locked eyes. A primal and instinctive lust ran through both their gazes, made more intense as Lestat thrust upward.

“Fuck me, Louis.” Lestat kissed him again. “Fuck me, _please_!”

The cock slid out almost past the head, before it slammed back inside. Lestat raked his nails hard down that broad back, drawing out long lines of blood, and bucked his hips in time to the erratic and forceful thrusts. Together, they entered a fast and regular rhythm. The moans and groans from Lestat were loud and broken, with each one interrupting their kisses, so soon they were pressed mouth-to-mouth with clumsy licks and suckles without any grace or elegance. He struggled to remain coherent, as the sound of balls on buttocks echoed out about the bedroom.

“That’s the spot,” moaned Lestat. “There!”

“Does that silver tongue of yours _ever_ turn to lead?”

“Fuck me hard enough and maybe we’ll find out!”

Louis rose to the challenge. He pounded harder and harder, until neither could properly breathe, and a heavy sweat broke over their skin, filling the room with the scent of sex. It slicked their skin and shone in the low candlelight, with one particular bead running over Louis’ temple. The wooden headboard smashed against the wall. The joints of the bed squeaked beneath them. Every thrust brought a squelch of lubrication and familiar slapping of skin-on-skin, while Lestat cried out in time to the thrusts . . . _‘uh, uh, uh, oh god’_. . . it was all too much.

There was no pain. A small discomfort came when the angle changed, but otherwise there was only arousal and ecstasy, and his cock was squeezed deliciously tight between their abdomens, where it coated their stomachs with pre-come. He wrapped his legs around that trim waist, while his legs shook and trembled and struggled for purchase. Louis spanked him. It sent a wave of wonderful vibrations through their joined bodies, as Louis asked in a low murmur:

“Does it feel good? Do you want this?”

“It feels good . . . great . . . _perfect_. Just don’t fucking stop!”

Louis moved harder and faster. He accidentally slipped out of Lestat once or twice, with his cock poking a little painfully at the perineum, and – when he repositioned his length – there was no shame or loss of arousal . . . only shared laughter and kisses and pleasure. Lestat clenched around him . . . inner walls fluttering . . . so tight, so hot . . . it was far greater to be taken than to take another, and Lestat only wished he had allowed himself the experience sooner.

He cried out ever louder, until – finally – he screamed. He arched his back at a painful angle, while his legs seized up and locked around Louis, and the pleasure struck a sudden crescendo, as every nerve was lit aflame with orgasmic bliss. His face contorted. His throat burned. The fast beating of his heart deafened him, until he feared it might stop, and hot ropes of come shot from his cock in furious spurts, coating his skin and sticking them together. There were bursts of light about his vision, as every muscle tightened to a painful and rigid point.

“Louis! _Louis_!”

Finally, the pleasure crashed like waves against him. The orgasm broke, leaving him only with the glorious afterglow that washed over his limbs warm and pleasant, and his legs fell limp and lifeless onto the sheets, even as Louis continued to pound an impossible speed inside him. He let his eyes roll back into his head. He was thoroughly fucked. Lestat was left to wonder what a sight he made, as he lay dishevelled and disorientated on the mattress, and all he could do was to pant and moan and smile absently at nothing and no one. He had reached heaven.

Louis seemed to stand it no longer. A burst of hot liquid shot from his rutting cock; it filled Lestat from the inside with an unfamiliar – yet perfect and needed – sensation, while coating his sensitive and excited insides. Lestat relished in this new experience. He grinned absently, even while white and hot come leaked out from his used and abused hole, and Louis remained shoved inside to the hilt, even as he collapsed down on Lestat and lay breathless against him.

The cock remained half-hard inside him, before slowly – and awkwardly – slipping out with a dribble of come and other matter, and kissing over and over on Lestat’s neck, while murmuring sweet words of love in the Parisian dialect. They touched all over. They entwined their legs, as they explored every inch of each other’s bodies. The minutes became an hour or more, as time ceased to exist aside from the soft intimacy between them, each one memorising every inch of flesh and searing the memory of their love-making into their minds. Lestat whispered:

“Care to go again, Old Man?”

Louis laughed. It was so bright and sincere that it shook Lestat. It was so rare to hear him laugh, so strange to see him happy, and yet here he was . . . all natural, fully content . . . he pulled back to kneel on all fours over Lestat, with a smile so devilish that it sent shivers down Lestat’s spine. He kissed his way down chest and nipples, before licking up the drying come from a flushed abdomen, and finally came to breathe warm and heavy against a twitching member, already half-hard with a curious want. Louis looked up at Lestat, licked his lips, and said warmly:

“Be careful what you wish for, my love . . .”


	8. Chapter 8

“No, I absolutely refuse!”

The old man stood alone. He kept his hands clasped behind his back, while he stood as tall as he could muster, and – in the barren study – he appeared all the larger, as if seeking to take up the space that should have been allocated to furniture and possessions. A low desk sat beneath the window, where a pile of books sat beside some papers and parchment. The ink-well was still full, albeit untouched and with a layer of dust, and the papers were yellowed with time.

Lestat gripped the letter in his hand. The sheets crumpled and tore. He marched forward and shoved the pages into the old man’s face, with enough force that he stumbled backwards, and – with a weak slap – the old man knocked away the letters. They fell to the floor, each one drifting and floating with surprising fragility despite the previous violence. The sheets littered the stone tiles. A foot stood on one, as it searched for purchase and balance, and left a visible footprint across previously pristine pages, staining the signature and blurring the words.

The man kicked at the papers, before tumbling back against a brick wall. He brought a trembling hand to his face, where he touched at the bruising skin, and ran his hands lazily over aging flesh, as he cast his eyes wildly about the study in search of something beyond his comprehension. The voice he emitted was broken and high-pitched, like the cries of a child in the midst of a bad dream, and he pointed an accusatory finger, as he rushed out in a single breath:

“Do you torment me with what I cannot see?”

Tears streamed down Lestat’s face. He brought his hands to his face, where the hot tears warmed his cold flesh, and – with choked breaths – pulled them back, only to see the resemblance . . . the similarities . . . _‘as you see me, so shall ye be’_. A tired laugh burst from his mouth, echoing about the study and mingling with the old man’s panicked cries. He lowered his hands. He fought with twitching lips to fight back the contorted smile, even as he marched to the desk.

The inkwell was cold in his hands. The fingers wrapped around its glass without intent, as if a mind of their own, and – with an ear-piercing scream – he flung the inkwell at the wall mere inches above the head of his father. The old man yelped. Glass fell down like a rain over his grey hair, as his wrinkled arms threw themselves over his head. He sobbed, even as he hunched over, and the ink itself stained his clothes and the stone walls. Lestat bent in two, while laughter and tears mingled into one monstrous sound, before finding strength to scream out:

“Well, can you hear that? Can you? Damn you. _Damn you to hell_ . . .”

“Lestat, you are proving yourself to be too immature!”

“Oh? I’m immature? Me?” Lestat snarled. “Why do you even keep an inkwell? Can you write? You have parchment and books and even a light. _A light_! Why do you light the lamp any time you enter the room? Does it help you? No . . . no, you call me immature, but you surround yourself with the trappings of your previous life as you life in denial of your ailment!”

Lestat grabbed at the books. He ripped them from the desk, before tossing them one by one onto the floor, and sobbed and laughed and screamed as he flung them with all his force, scattering them chaotically wherever they landed. The parchments he ripped into pieces. The old man pressed his side to the wall, while one hand rested palm-down against the stone. He looked vulnerable . . . weak . . . _mortal_. Lestat winced. The letters in Louis’ hand still laid scattered on the floor, but now lost amidst the wreckage. The old man muttered out:

“Are you done, my son?”

A few choked breaths escaped Lestat. The hand that clenched the lamp dropped limp at his side, while his shoulders sagged and his head fell to his chest, and his fingers finally loosened, so that the lamp fell with a soft clatter against the stone tiles. The tears were bitter against his tongue, as he stumbled forward and swayed with each step. He nearly fell against the books and scraps, before stopping just a few inches from his trembling father, and pressed his hand close to his heart, gripping tightly at his loose shirt. He choked out in a whisper:

“Why . . . _why_ won’t you let me go with him?”

“I don’t think you’re ready for such independence.” The old man winced. “Who will be there to protect you in the New World? You would be among people of all nationalities and classes, with only the money of your mentor to keep you sheltered and fed, and if he chooses to cause you harm or cast you aside -? I would not see you forced to stay with him or out on the streets.

“What if you change your mind? How would you come home? You would be at the mercy of this man, and I have yet to work out his intentions in making such an offer. He is an unmarried man of independent means, one of the upper classes, and he wishes to take a handsome – yet uneducated – youth with him across the ocean, paying for his expenses? Forgive me if I show some concern for my youngest child. There would be no coming back, were this to go wrong.”

“We plan to stay in Paris first,” cried Lestat. “If I do change my mind, I would have weeks – if not months – to see the error of my ways and come crawling back! You’d notice my arrival well in advance, as it’ll be a cold and snowy day here in hell. Now, let me _go_ , Father!”

The old man pushed past Lestat. He stumbled towards the window, using muscle memory and hands upon the walls, and stopped only when he could fall forward, clenching both hands on the edge of the desk until the loose skin turned tight. The sunlight brushed against his face, warming the otherwise cool skin, and even gave him a soft glow about his features. Lestat followed him. He was close enough to touch; his hands twitched at his sides, as he eyed that neck, and his hands tightened once more into tight fists. He flared his nostrils with a heavy hiss.

“Lestat,” said the old man. “You say that he wishes to take you on as his apprentice? You say that he wishes to take you to the New World to act as overseer for his plantation? He first must conduct business in Paris, but I doubt that I need to ask what sort of business. I heard that he plans to buy a theatre there, yes? A theatre where a violinist is wooing the people _en masse_!”

“I’ve heard no such rumours.”

“So you don’t still dream of being an actor? He won’t just leave you in this theatre with your – _ah_ – ‘friend’? This is either an insidious ploy to help you run away with Nicholas, or he has far from innocent plans upon your person once you reach the New World!”

“In either case, I think both options preferable to staying in this hellhole!”

“That you would say that prove you are too young to leave . . .”

A terrible scream emitted from Lestat. He buried his hands into his blond hair, dislodging the black ribbon that kept his hair in place, and gripped until scratches appeared deep in his scalp, as every breath came out in a succession of pants and hisses. The back of his throat was sore. He tasted iron. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, before – with an exhale – dropped his hands and pursed his lips. He cricked his neck. The old man said nothing, even as they stood so close to one another in the midst of such emotion, and it was Lestat who was forced to break the silence.

“I thought I might stay a while in Paris, yes,” said Lestat. “Louis would go ahead to the New World, and – when I was ready – I would join him at his plantation . . . we can write to one another, and I can fend for myself, and I also want to explore the world beyond this little village. Even Nicholas was once allowed to study abroad, and he’s younger than I am!”

“And look what happened! He sold his law books and became destitute, all before crawling back with his tail between his legs, as he begged his father for mercy, and now -? Ha! Now he is likely in that small theatre of yours, either playing his instrument or allowing others to play his instead!”

“Nicholas is not –”

“You have a _life_ here, Lestat! You can write and hunt, which is enough for you to start a small business in town, maybe trading furs or meats . . . I can find you a nice wife, while you visit us every so often, and you will be safe and content and respectable. Why is this not enough?”

“Because I want more. I want _more_ , damn it! I don’t know his intentions, but I have faith that he wants what’s best for me, but do you know what? If you weren’t such a fucking awful father, maybe I’d have _learnt_ enough from life to better judge him! It’s about time I went out into the world as a man, because I sure as hell have nothing to learn about being a man from you!”

The old man slapped him. It was with a surprising ringing force, one that should have been impossible from a man that could barely stand or see, and yet – as Lestat brought his trembling fingers to his cheek – the skin reddened and bruised with a burning sensation. He rubbed at the skin. He opened his mouth wide. There were no words . . . only pain and a cold adrenaline . . . tears broke in his eyes, as well as those of the old man. The old man pushed past Lestat, as he snatched his cane from an adjacent wall, and choked out in broken sobs:

“You think you’re such a man, Lestat.”

“More of a man than you, yes.”

“If you’re such a man, how is that the pack of wolves still haunt those woods? What happened to your mission to rid the woods of each and every one? You may be able to write a letter. You may be able to aim a gun. You may even be able to entertain a grown man in his rooms, but . . . you are still just a boy, and while you are a boy then I must do what is right for you.”

The old man made his way to the study doors. He slipped on the papers, only catching himself with luck alone, and used his cane to gain purchase on the floor. The wood clacked with a familiar rhythm as it moved in time to his steps, and yet his pace was slower. Lestat struggled to draw in breath. The broken hiccup sounds echoed about the room, while his tears fell fast and free down his cheeks, and his lips fumbled over desperate pleas that failed to quite leave his mouth, as his hand reached towards his father. The old man stopped, turned, and whispered:

“You are forbidden from going.”

He finally left. The doors slammed shut behind him, leaving Lestat alone with his thoughts and fears, and – with hands over his mouth – he laughed through his tears, before collapsing down onto his knees in the empty and chaotic room. He laughed. He laughed until the tears ran dry and his throat contracted into retches and coughs, and stopped only when he was curled up among papers and books and parchments, while the ink ran down the wall . . .

* * *

Louis stared with wide eyes, as he sat down on the mattress. It dipped a little under his weight, while the quilts and blankets ruffled a little with his pressure, and his long fingers toyed with the hem of a set of furs with slow and steady movements. The clothes he wore were unlike his usual style, but instead practical and sturdy, and the clothes of one that had planned a great deal of travel and to whom comfort was a priority. He frowned. He looked Lestat over.

It was quiet within the bedroom. The rhythmic pitter-patter of rain struck the tiles of the tower, before dripping down with a trickling sound on the outside of the windowless walls, and yet Lestat struggled to hear over his racing heart. He tented his hands before his mouth, as he forced low and deep breaths. Louis simply shook his head and raised a hand in a strange gesture of mercy, before letting it drop with a thud back upon the mattress, and – furrowing his brow – looked to Lestat and brought his hand to his chest, as he asked in a low whisper:

“I don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

Lestat dropped down onto his knees. He crawled across the bedroom floor, before stopping between Louis’ legs, and pressed sweaty and trembling hands to his thighs, while he stared up at him with wide and watering eyes. Louis reached down to cup his cheek, which he nuzzled into with a warm and intimate touch. The two smiled at one another. They whispered soft words that were neither coherent nor complete, but somehow made sense to both, as they simply held each other and continued to smile and weep, until Lestat begged in a hoarse voice:

“I’m asking you – _begging_ you – to turn me!”

Louis pulled back his hand. Lestat grabbed it back. He held it tight with both his hands in turn, while Louis simply shook his head over and over with a grimace. The expression was contorted into one rarely seen, with eyes shimmering red with unshed tears, and his gaze moved in all directions, as if seeking some distraction and unable to look directly upon Lestat. A flicker of candlelight caught at his pale complexion, giving a simulation of life with how it lightly graced against his features, but it was an illusion shattered by the lifeless whisper:

“I’ve never made anyone else a vampire . . .”

“There’s a first time for everything. Surely _you_ know that?”

“Lestat, I -! The one who made me had strong blood, this much is true, but he threw himself onto the funeral pyre immediately after I was made . . . I’ve never so much as met another of our kind, and – as far as I know – I may even be the only one left in this world. I feel I am weak by our standards, at least compared to his strength, and the changes are so unpredictable . . .”

“Could the same not be said of any process? It could be anything from baking a cake to the changes of puberty, but one can never know the final state until the changes have taken place, and yet do we just never attempt anything? Do we fight against the inevitable? Should Shakespeare not have written? Should Mozart not have composed? Should people never marry? Never have children? Should the human race just cease to be out of fear of what could be?”

“ _Reductio ad absurdum._ ”

“I might not know those words mean, but I know that it means you’re afraid.” Lestat took in a deep breath. “You’re afraid of the truth! You always criticise me for being too spontaneous and engaging in risky behaviour, but the fact is that – since you died – you’ve stopped living . . . you’re this inactive, stagnant, and docile thing. You’re a shadow of what you once were! If I have to learn restraint, surely you need to learn to just . . . well . . . _live_.”

Lestat slowly stood. He towered over the sitting Louis, casting a dark shadow that eliminated the last of the candlelight, and – reaching down – he took those cold and chiselled cheeks into hands, forcing Louis to told his head back and look into his eyes. He pressed a soft kiss to the smooth forehead, followed by his cheeks, his nose, and finally his lips . . . taking them into something both so chaste and yet so intimate, as he coaxed them to reciprocate. Louis gasped into the kiss, as Lestat guided him to lying down on the furs and quilts. He made no objections.

Louis reclined with his black hair splayed out like a halo. Lestat climbed astride him, with legs keeping that trimmed waist locked in place, and rested his buttocks over the groin that brought so many nights of pleasure in recent months, before rested his hands on tone pectoral muscles. The shirt and waistcoat were thin and rough, like the items typically worn by the lower classes, and Lestat leaned down until his blond hair curtained his face, adding to an element of intimacy.

“I know what’s at risk,” swore Lestat. “I know that I might die. I know that I might grow to hate my new existence. I know all of this, and yet I _choose_ to follow this path, as the potential gifts it will bring far exceed the monotonous existence in this hellish place. Take me. _Turn me_.”

He pulled at the collar of his shirt, until his neck was fully exposed. He tilted his head to allow the long column to be on full display, with the throbbing vein pulsing noticeably even to mortal eyes, and revealing a few bite-marks with blood scabbed over about the canine teeth. The bites mingled with the typical love-bites, until violence and romance became one and the same, and he leaned further down until he was press flush against the chest he so loved.

Louis instinctively rose, with a high gasp falling from his wet lips. He pressed his mouth against the exposed throat, marking it over and over with wet and passionate kisses, drawing moans of arousal from Lestat, as the sensitive skin was firmly teased and tormented. Louis came to lick along the side of his neck, before toying with his earlobe and blowing a tingle of warm air through him, and proceeded to nibble just below the pulse, stopping short of breaking the skin. He pushed Lestat back. He drew in the breathless gasp of a suffocating man, desperate for air that was lost to him in his barely restrained desire, and shook his head with violent sways.

“We could still be together,” whispered Louis. “You don’t need to be a vampire to be with me. I would love you and want you even with your mortality, and if anything . . . it may be _why_ I so love you, because you so perfectly express what it means to _be_ human, and I – I can’t . . . I can’t be the one to take that away from you, Lestat. I can’t make you into someone like me.”

“Did becoming a vampire _really_ change you that much?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t doubt that this is something deeply profound. I don’t doubt that it would make you reassess life and its meaning, but can it _really_ change you on an intrinsic level? You were depressed before, and you’ll no doubt be depressed again, and let’s not forget that your mother and sister have never once suspected . . . never once known . . .

“You’re still _you_ , Louis. The only difference is that now you have an extended life, with extended strength, and you have _freedom_ . . . how is it fair that you get unlimited freedom and shackle yourself willingly to one room, while I beg and plead and ask for that same freedom and get denied at every turn? If it’s not you refusing me this, then it’s my father refusing me that! I just want this one choice to be mine . . . the good, the bad, and the consequences . . .”

He leaned back down against Louis. A strong hand forced the mouth back to his neck, while the fingers of his free hand worked at the buttons to the waistcoat, and whispered an endless stream of ‘ _please_ ’ into the ear of his lover, as he ground down against Louis. He ran his hands beneath the opened waistcoat, sliding under the shirt to stroke against bare flesh, while those soft lips suckled against his pulse-point with an unnatural hunger. Lestat blinked back his tears.

“Do you really want to see me age?” Lestat whispered. “If you love me, as I love you, why would you want to see me grow old and infirm and finally perish? You have to hold back when we make love. You always watch over me, afraid to leave me alone. And I -? I have to live in fear of the day when you’ll stop finding me attractive . . . when I’m grey, wrinkled . . .”

“Lestat, I would never –”

“Besides . . . wouldn’t it be a sin for the world to lose a beauty like mine?”

Lestat winked. The gesture was lost, as his face was buried into black locks and soft pillows, but – as if sensing the playfulness – burst out into soft peals of laughter, and his arms wrapped around Lestat to hold him tight until two were nearly one. He kissed over and over at Lestat, while a whisper of _‘you fool’_ spilled from his busy lips. Lestat rolled onto his back, pulling Louis with him until their positions were reversed, and his legs wrapped around those hips in an imitation of their first time. The canine teeth nipped lightly at his neck.

“I want you to turn me,” said Lestat. “I just need this night . . . _one night_ . . . let me do what I have to do once I’ve been turned, and then together we can run before sunup. I don’t care if we have to sleep in the dirt in shallow graves, but give me this one night . . . give me my _freedom_.”

“If we do this, there’s no coming back . . .”

Lestat arched his back, as he buried his hands into black hair. He ran his hands over Louis’ shirt pulling open the buttons and exposing the smooth skin of his chest, and – with a teasing tweak of a nipple – he coaxed out a hiss of pleasure from Louis, whose breath came out in fast pants against the throbbing pulse in the neck. The erection against his thigh spoke of anticipation, one that usually came with the first sip of blood, but this time it was different . . . Louis was restrained, tense . . . fighting against his nature, even as Lestat gasped out:

“Who said I want to come back?”

Louis groaned. He bucked up into Lestat, pressing his erection into a still flaccid member, and Lestat – with racing heart – tried not to tense as sharp teeth scratched at his neck, leaving visible red and raised marks against the flesh. Lestat screw shut his eyes. He took in quick and hissed breaths, as his muscles tensed and hands tightened into fists. Louis kissed over and over at his neck, lathing it with his tongue and lips, until finally he took the necessary action . . .

He bit down.

* * *

The night was unlike anything experienced. The colours were so much sharper and more distinct, as if the shadows contained various shades of black and grey, and even previously unknown shapes were now distinct and clearly apart from their surroundings, like a pasted picture onto a background image. It was as if the world was alive, with even the inanimate trunk of the trees seeming to move, with light from sources that were impossible to see with a moral gaze.

Lestat moved through the woods silently . . . _silently_. The speed of his limbs was matched only with their new precision, as they touched down perfectly against the ground with a newfound grace, and even their mobility was beyond the normal range. It was as if his body was stretched and moulded, made into something new and fresh, and laughter came out sincere and bright and warm with every breath. Even the animals were no longer a threat! They no longer ran from him, and no longer lunged at him, but milled about with an absent indifference.

A wolf lay not far from a clearing in the forest. It cast a lazy eye to him, with the yellow so intense that even the canvas could hold no candle to its beauty, and there he knelt . . . watching . . . simply observing its iris, with all its shades and tones and patterns, until an hour had passed and Louis darted by as a shadow in the distance. Lestat reached out a steady hand to run through its soft fur, which moved softer than satin on his palm. He whispered:

“It’s almost a shame to kill you . . .”

Lestat chuckled, before he ran from the wolf. The wolf gave chase, whether as a brother after its kin or as a hound after its hunt, but – although Lestat knew not which – he no longer cared about its presence beyond what it could provide. It was a competitor . . . an _equal_ . . . it matched his speed, until Lestat had to slow his pace to allow it a chance. He would alter his pace, alternating between speeding and slowing, until the other wolves gained enough ground on them.

The pack moved as one, but each one was clear in the darkness. They were no longer indistinct shapes and blurs, no longer just shadows upon shadows, but each one was as visible as if the sun were raining down upon them. Lestat slowed his pace. He laughed until tears streamed down his face, leaving red streaks as grotesque as they were beautiful, and threw out his arms like a child in the fields, relishing in the rush of air against his limbs. The wolves howled. He howled with them, before descending into laughter once again. He shouted out to the pack:

“Come on . . . a little more.”

Lestat skidded to a stop. He left tracks in the ground, all from the force of his sudden stop. He spun around and threw up his hands, as if in mock surrender, before he bowed to them like an actor upon a stage, with the dangerous smirk that brought a glint to his eyes. The beasts finally surrounded him, as they growled and snarled and barked at him, until spit shot from their jaws and yellowing fangs. They were no longer content, but equally afraid . . . afraid of _him_ . . . he was the man that hunted them, but now the man no longer just a ‘man’. He was far greater.

The first one lunged for him. He side-stepped. The wolf seemed to move in slow-motion to his astute eyes, enough that – with his newfound reflexes – his arms were able to wrap around its immense body, and a simple throw had it pinned to the ground by its neck. He could smell the blood in its veins. He could hear the beating of its heart. Every breath was loud, like crashing waves or peals of thunder, and he saw the beast in its true form: a collection of flesh.

“Finally, you’re not the only ones free . . .”

The wolves dove at once, each one biting at the air in anticipation. He used little force to break the neck of the one beneath him, no more than breaking a matchstick in two, and a rush of adrenaline ran cool through him, like a summer storm on a hot afternoon. Lestat threw back his head. He drew in a great rush of breath. The beating of his heart was pleasurable . . . alien . . . at odds to the beasts around him, all of which he swatted away like flies. They were no match for him, and no longer were they in control . . . these were his woods . . . this was his life.

* * *

Gabrielle sat down beside the mattress. The old man lay upon the bed, clad only in an old night-shirt, one that – despite being oversized – betrayed the lost weight and prominent bones, and his eyes fixed awkwardly on a spot far beyond her, as if seeing into a world unknown. A sunbeam drifted in through the open windows, where a warm breeze blew at threadbare curtains. He angled his head towards the warmth, as his eyes finally closed, and he offered a low hum.

The wolf pelt lay between them, perfectly soft and folded. The trembling and wrinkled fingers of the old man would drift absently over the fur, relishing in its softness, and part the individual hairs before smoothing them down, while the letter slid from its surface. It dropped just beside the pelt, with its messy and almost illegible writing scrawled across its pristine surface in an expensive ink. Gabrielle took the letter into her hands. It was easy to fool herself into thinking the ink still wet and the furs still warm, as she asked with a gentle smile:

“Do you wish me to read it aloud?”

The old man nodded. He pulled the pelt up and over his legs. It was far too warm to provide much benefit, and the pewter mug of boiled water seemed to be diminishing at a quicker rate than usual, as if he were overheated, and yet – despite this – he clung to the furs like a lifeline. A tear pricked at the corner of his eye, while an absent smile never left his lips. Gabrielle came around the bed to sit beside him, where she leaned her head against his shoulder, and he pressed a chaste kiss to her greying hair, as she found strength to whisper out:

_‘Dear Father,_

_‘I know you always saw me as your little boy, but today I acted as a man. This pelt is of the final wolf that I killed. This letter is written by my hand with all I’ve learned. I know even this will not be proof enough to you, but know that this time you will not be able to bring me back._

_‘I am my own person now. I’ll live life according to my whims._

_‘I do not ask your forgiveness nor do I expect it._

_‘Forever your son,_

_‘Lestat.’_

The tear finally fell from his eye. It rolled down his cheek and landed on the letter, still held tightly in her hands to the point of creasing, and there it felt on the name of ‘Lestat’, until the ink blurred and left a permanent stain upon the page. He buried his face in her hair, while his chest heaved with jerky movements that were either laughter or wracked sobs, and his lips kissed at her hair over and over, as his hand came to rest over hers against the page. He finally whispered:

“Goodbye, my son . . ."


End file.
